Leaving On A Jet Plane
by Marvel Lit Chick
Summary: Hon•ey•moon: NOUN 1. A vacation spent together by a newly married couple. Because easy, dictionary definitions have always applied to Darcy and Bucky's relationship. What's the definition of "Trip from Hell"? Being split up on a creepy tropical island is just the cherry on top. Part 6 of Maybe Life Is Just One Big Marathon. Darcy/Bucky with some Steve/Natasha, some Tony/Pepper, etc
1. Chapter 1: Island in the Sun

**Alright, guys. So I wrote a sequel. No guarantees on publishing times with this one, though. It's been slow going, and I don't know how long it might take me to keep up. But I think this will be a great idea once I find my groove. Anyhoo, this is going to start out slow, but we'll get to the action quick enough. This beginning is mostly humor and fluff. Let me know how you like. I really, really, REALLY love hearing your feedback! Happy Fourth!**

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 **Leaving On A Jet Plane**

 **Chapter One: Island in the Sun**

Chapter title taken from the Weezer song. Totally applies here, go give it a listen. Story title also taken from a song-guy named John Denver, you _might've_ heard of him. Love him, go check him out too.

((()))

Justin Timberlake blared through the cavernous sparring room, the bass a pounding echo that set her veins fizzing. Smirking, she watched her companion slide off his Nikes and cross to the supply cabinet, pulling out the wrapping tape, the contours of his back barely covered by the white tank he wore. "All this needs is a film camera and this could be a super sexy music video, what with you looking all _yummy_ over there," she called.

"Eat your heart out, Lewis," her companion called back.

She laughed, thumbing the button to turn up the volume further. "I fully intend to. Why you think I came down here?"

He snorted, shaking his head. "And here I thought you wanted me to help you work on your sparring."

She shrugged demurely, looking across at him through her lashes. "Well. _Sparring_ can be fun."

He rolled his eyes, but his mouth was curled in a self-satisfied smirk, and he snapped the fingers of his human right hand. "Front and center, Lewis," he ordered.

She sauntered over, taking her time to accentuate the generous curves she knew he watched, even when he looked like he wasn't. "I like it when you boss me around." But she gestured with her chin. "Why don't _you_ wrap _your_ hands?"

He took up her right hand in both of his and went to work, winding the white tape around her knuckles. "Because I've been doing this a lot longer than you have—and I only have to worry about one to begin with." He held up his right. "Sorry, doll. Tape it is."

She stood dutifully until he was done, his hands gentle on her, as always. It still amazed her, the idea that the same hands were capable of so much more. She'd seen video of him strangling her own boss's mother, but he was never anything short of tender and careful with her.

"Besides—enhanced or not, you're still a lot more fragile than I am—and I was a good boxer _before_ the War."

She nodded, not about to argue when she knew he was right; her serum was… _different_. Incomplete.

"You're making that face you sometimes make," Bucky finally said, face serious in a strange contrast with the bright music.

She blinked up at him. "What face?"

"You know, that face where you're thinking about how much you hate HYDRA and wanna go back and kill them all for what's happened to me."

She felt the blush rise on her cheeks. "I hate you, Barnes."

He pulled her wedding ring off, the platinum of the silver glinting off the lights as he set it aside and went to work taping her left hand. "Then why'd you marry me?"

She nibbled on her lip. "For the sex," she quipped.

He snorted, shaking his head.

But she didn't really feel the verbal sparring; he'd caught her red-handed. "How do you always know?"

He shrugged. "Maybe it was part of my programming: Advanced Body Language with a Certificate in Facial Expressions. Who knows?"

Now, she snorted.

"C'mon, Lewis. Look alive. We've only got a few hours to do this, then we gotta pack and get going or Stark will have our hides."

"I checked the reservation last night—we're all set. The keys will be at the front gate."

They'd rented a sprawling beachfront property in East Hampton for three weeks. _Three weeks_ away from the Tower, _three weeks_ away from Tony's sarcasm and Jane's crazy, away from any and all chance of the world needing saving—even if it did, their sniper wasn't showing. It was his day off. _Three weeks_ all to _themselves_ on their own beach on the ocean. She could hardly wait.

But he only nodded, sinking back on his heels, all soldier, all business. Without giving her any warning at all, he lunged forward, striking out with his right hand.

She reared back just in time to duck out of the way of his hook, and she felt the breeze of his punch whistle past her face. "God damn it, Barnes."

But he only sank into a feint, tapping her on the backside with the heel of his hand. "I said, ' _Look alive_ '. C'mon, Lewis, let's go. You're better than this. Get your head in the game."

"Enough of your manhandling, Coach," she replied, dropping back and striking out with her right, careful not to tuck her thumb.

He let her sink the shot into his metal shoulder and she winced, regretting that she didn't go for his gut. But when she recoiled and aimed for his core, he nailed her on the right side.

Hissing in pain, she jerked back, glaring at him. "You're not supposed to beat up your wife before the honeymoon, you jerk."

He gave her an easy smile, coming in close—which he knew always threw her off—to grab her shoulders and shove her back. "Then don't give me an in. Your right side was wide open. Cover all your weak spots."

She barely caught herself up before she landed on her ass, but he was there, landing another hit—this time on her _left_ side—reminding her of the overpass fight she'd watched the footage of countless times. Steve had had nothing but his shield—then even less than that—and Bucky had been vicious, relentless in his determination to find Captain America's weak spot with his Gerber blade. She could never decide if she thought it was creepy or sexy, and she wondered what that said about her.

She growled, striking blindly at his pretty face and connecting with his hard jaw. She grumbled as the report sang up her wrist.

He laughed as he took up her arms and helped her balance back on her feet. "Good. Do it again."

Without waiting for him, she struck out, smirking—

But he snared her wrist in the iron grip of his left hand, tugging her in close. "Stop _thinking so hard_ ," he said, his voice low and insistent.

"Stop pulling your punches," she shot back.

"I'm your _husband_ , not your _jailor_ —and you might not be as fragile as you _were_ , but I could still beat you into a bloody pulp. I'll pull every punch I throw, _thank you very much_." And he gave her a challenging little shove, throwing her back on her heels.

Annoyed, she sank back into a crouch and they circled each other.

"I've taught you the moves; now you have to put them into use, fast as you can. If you work the choreography too slow, every opponent will be able to memorize your playbook and you'll lose before you even start. You have to be able to run through it without thinking; you have to be able to substitute moves and turn on a dime or it'll all be for _nothing_."

She was irked with herself that she hadn't managed to turn off her libido this time. Whenever they came to the mat like this, she made it about five minutes before she was overcome by the base desire to throw him down and jump his bones—theoretically speaking, of course. As if he'd let her. He didn't take any distraction whatsoever. He was entirely focused, entirely militaristic—entirely the Winter Soldier.

She'd been trying— _really_ hard—to turn that off lately. Her serum had made her into a goopy mess and she couldn't very well spend the rest of her life acting like an animal in heat. What was worse—he'd _noticed_. He noticed _everything_. The downside of having a husband with a photographic memory and mechanical focus. He'd been programmed to spot a speck on any blanket of chalk and usually she appreciated his ability to care for her when no one else noticed how bad a day she'd had. But this? This was…

She blushed, focusing on her footwork.

He'd smirked the other day and murmured—in his best husky voice, the one he _knew_ made her gut into a ball of knots—that a side-effect of her serum was clearly making her into a puddle at his feet. As much as it stoked his ego, he'd said it was dangerously distracting and that she'd have to work through it.

So, scowling, she took the offensive, stepping forward into his space to land a knock to his right shoulder that he answered with a swipe at her legs.

She went down— _hard_ —on her ass, wincing in preparation for the pain, but the mat was thick and cushioned and she bounced, glaring at him.

He just raised a single brow, his mouth cocked in a flirtatious line.

She couldn't decide if she was pissed off or turned on all over again. Snarling in determination, she threw herself forward and into him, kicking, then twisting when he used her own leverage against her, managing to pirouette back onto her feet rather than be swung around and landed on her ass again. So she switched gears slightly, coming in close, smiling sweetly as she moved into his space. His only answer was a wry look and a raised eyebrow, but he was prepared when she raised her leg to knee him in the gut, his metal hand catching her shin and propelling her back down— _onto her ass_.

He smirked. "Too slow."

She huffed her hair out of her face. "Don't you think that's unfair, since you're outfitted for speed? I've seen that footage, you know. You came after Steve-O like some sort of… _ninja_."

He snorted, not bothered in the least by the honorable mention. "Wasn't trained in martial arts, but okay. Whatever you say, doll." He bent over her. " _Focus_. I know you've got it in you—I've _seen_ you in action. How is that any different now?"

She narrowed her eyes. "The choice of opponent is damnably attractive," she snapped.

"And you're going to be distracted by other things in the field. A little distraction from me here is _nothing_ compared to what you'll have to deal with _out there_. If you can't handle me in this room, alone, how will you handle a team out there?"

"You're mean on the training mat," she accused, half-heartedly.

"I'm trying to prepare you to _stay alive_. If that makes me mean, _I don't care_." He crossed his arms over his chest. "C'mon, Lewis—was marrying you the last challenge _already_?" he goaded her. "Don't tell me that's all you got up your sleeve!"

Growling and fed up, she lunged up off the mat, using her body weight to surprise him onto his back, and they landed in a heap on the hard floor, their momentum shooting them clean off the sparring mats.

It was a long, breathless moment there in a pile, and she would've laughed at the movie scene they surely made if she weren't so shamelessly distracted by his turquoise eyes. She was pretty fairly sprawled across him and if they hadn't been in a serious-bordering-on-codependent-relationship, it would've been indecent, the straddle of her hips."How's that?" she challenged, their faces so close their noses were touching.

He swallowed, but he wasn't even winded, his hands tight around her waist to catch them both up. "Better."

"You as turned on as I am?"

His brow went up. "Can you do it again?"

She leaned down to steal a kiss—

"What is this garbage Foster just told me about a Hamptons trip?" a voice called out over the music, clearly unhappy. "And while I can appreciate Justin Timberlake's latest album, don't you think _TKO_ is a little on the nose?" The music was immediately cut off.

Darcy sighed, but didn't look up from her husband's face. Where, a moment ago, it'd been hard and determined, no-nonsense, now his expression was soft and affectionate. "I was being facetious." She raised her eyes to glare up at Tony Stark through her lashes, but didn't bother to move. "Like I'd be able to knock _this_ guy out."

Tony smirked, eyeing them both up from the doorway, where he held up the jamb with an expensively tailored hip. "Depending on the definition, _technically_ , you could be right now, Lewis." He waved a hand. "Though, technically that would _make_ you the knock out, not the one to _deliver_ the knock out." He sighed. "Syntax."

Darcy rolled her eyes.

"No, seriously. You're going _upstate_? For your _honeymoon_?"

She sighed, pushing off the Winter Soldier's chest to leverage herself up and off him, much as she didn't want to. He was so… _comfortable_. "Yes."

He pulled himself up and made sure she was steady before tugging the hair band from his hair and securing the knot again.

Tony shook his head. "That has gotta be the saddest excuse for a honeymoon I have _ever_ heard. Barnes, you're loaded—why you letting her get away with that pansy idea?"

Bucky snorted. " _'Letting_ her'? Who's to say the idea was hers?"

Tony blinked, coming all the way into the room—sauntering, really, his hands in his pockets. "You mean it _wasn't_ hers?"

Darcy hesitated, looking determinedly down at the wrapping job he'd done on her hands.

"So it _was_ hers?" Tony clarified.

She bit her lip. "… _Technically_."

"And I _agreed_ ," Bucky finished. "Quiet. The Hamptons are _quiet_."

Tony snorted. "Kid, you don't know the Hamptons like _I_ do. They're _anything_ but quiet during the height of the season—which is why I made you other reservations."

Darcy gaped at him, totally caught off-guard. " _Tony_!"

But he just waved a hand again. "All-inclusive, fully-staffed Hawaiian beach house." He grinned, gesturing. "And—drop the mic."

She sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Tony—I already made the down payment."

He scoffed. "Oh, _please_. What do you think I am—an _amateur_? I've got a place there, I'm on the _Board_. The first thing I did was call up Robertson. It's his place. He refunded it. Had a whole waiting list of people on that place, it ain't like he was hurting to rent it out."

She snatched her water bottle from Bucky's offered grip. "And this mysterious Hawaiian house? Where is it? _Why_ is it? Who's supposed to pay for that?"

Tony began ticking off his answers on one hand. "One: the Big Island; Two: It's Hawaii—isn't that reason enough; and Three: there's nothing to pay for, seeing as it's _my_ place."

"We wanted to be close to home."

Again, the billionaire scoffed. "Oh, _please_ —you don't want to be anywhere _near_ this place if shit's going down."

"We wanted _quiet_."

"What's quieter than your own stretch of Hawaiian beach in your own beach house?"

Darcy hesitated, glaring at him.

Tony smirked. "Hear that? That's the sound of your argument becoming invalid."

She sighed again. "Boss Man—"

"C'mon, Short Stack. I made you two suffer through a belated wedding shower so my wife would stop hounding me—let me do this for you." He closed the gap between them to stand directly in front of her. "It's been a really hard year— _especially_ on you two. And I know, sometimes, I can be…" He hesitated.

"A jerk?" Darcy supplied.

"An idiot?" Bucky added.

"Stubborn?" Darcy suggested.

"Definition of 'mad scientist'?" Bucky continued, gesturing with his water bottle.

"How about a total _pain my ass_?" Darcy stated.

Tony rolled his eyes. "Alright, that's enough. No wonder you two work so well—the banter is—"

"Adorable?"

"Hilarious?"

"— _Obnoxious_ ," Tony finally cut in.

"You said it yourself, Stark: you made us suffer. That requires vengeance," Bucky snarked.

Tony sighed heavily. "Just— _hold on a sec._ Listen, I know I can be…all those things." He rolled his eyes again. "But I'm gonna get mushy here for just one minute and make sure you know that no one— _not one person in this tower_ —was rooting for you guys harder than I was. Okay?"

They glanced at each other.

" _Seriously_." He crossed his arms over his chest and studied them. "I been down a lot of roads, guys. A _lot_. Not nearly like you and the Star Spangled Man," he amended, nodding at Bucky. "But enough to know, okay? Enough to understand what it means to physically— _physically_ —require redemption. Okay? And while everyone was gaping at the two of you like a school of fish, and while everyone was laughing that you had to help him screw his head on straight, and while Wanda and Jane were checking you for injuries like you'd just left the goddamn _lion's den_ , I was ticking off the days until _that_ one—" He pointed at Bucky—"lost that haunted look in his eyes, the dark cloud that was following him around. You wanna know how long it took before that cleared? You wanna know?"

Darcy swallowed, looking down at her wrapped hands again.

"One month, two weeks, four days."

She jerked and looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Wait, _what_?"

Tony blinked. "One month, two weeks, four days before you clawed something outta him, kid." He smirked. "I knew you two you were done lookin' about four months before either of you did."

Bucky shifted nervously.

"And it's been _shit_ ever since. I swear to God, since I got into this superhero shit, nothing's hit the fan so hard since you two got together. It's some kind of record." He sighed. "So go. _Please_. I'm begging you here— _it shall not leave this room_." He eyed them. "It's quiet there. There's a private beach. It's on a bluff. Pep and I went there, I bought it from the guy first day. It's got a staff of two—Olga cooks and Deb cleans—they're seriously the most awesome grandma's I know. They'll be invisible, outta your hair, laundry done, food in the fridge. Just _go_. Get as _far away from here_ as you _possibly_ can, okay? I'm _serious_. You two are _killing_ me. I just need you to go and _not be here_ for a while."

Darcy sighed.

Tony stared, first at her, then at him— _hard_.

 _Bucky_ sighed.

They looked at each other…

((()))

Which was exactly how they ended up taxiing down a runway at LaGuardia the next morning in Tony Stark's private jet.

"You don't need to beat it around the bush, Bruce. Just give it to me straight. You won't break me."

Bucky took her carryon from her hand and stowed it in the side compartment.

"Well, it's just…" Banner hesitated.

Darcy rolled her eyes and adjusted her Starkphone against her ear. " _Yeah_?"

"…Tests came back the same." It all rushed out of the shy scientist's mouth, like he'd been holding his breath. "You're um…"

She cocked her head, smirking. "Shooting blanks?"

She could practically hear him wincing. "Uh, yeah. Yes."

She nodded, once, though he couldn't see her. "Good."

A pause on the line. " _Good_?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, good. This is a good result, as far as I'm concerned."

Banner was blinking, so hard it was audible. " _Oh_. Well. Okay, then."

Darcy slid into the plush white leather seat and pulled a face at how comfortable it was.

Bucky smirked as he clicked his seatbelt shut.

"Oh, my God, have you been on the private jet—I feel like Stark's been holding out on us," she said as she slid on her own seatbelt.

"That's…not all," Bruce said, sounding reluctant again, totally ignoring her aside.

Darcy snorted, donning her best infomercial voice. "But wait—there's more! Act now, and we'll double our offer!" She sighed. "What's up, Doc? Kinda got a honeymoon to get to, here, so let's move it or lose it."

Surprisingly, he got right down to it, diving into the science speak and Darcy wondered if Tony had walked in, giving him an exaggerated gesture to get it over with. Boss Man knew how much she hated waiting. "Well, listen, the blood panel came back, and your T Cells were elevated again."

" _Again_?"

Bucky frowned.

"Yes, _again_. There's a clear, definable pattern that's emerging."

"A pattern that my ability can't controlled?"

"No, no. I mean, that remains to be seen. Just…that it needs to be limited."

She pulled another face at Bucky. "Limited, _how_?"

"Well, we're not sure of that, yet, are we? All I'm saying is, the way this looks, is that we don't know how using the ability might affect you."

"Like, removing Tony's burn brought a burn—"

"Onto _you_ , yes. You essentially took it away from him." he finished.

"So…if I, say, wanted to heal someone's heart attack—"

"There's no knowing how that might affect _your_ _own_ heart, yes, exactly."

She blinked. " _So_ …?"  
Bruce paused, then sighed again. "Just…I'm just saying _be careful_. Okay? Until we can study this a little more, in the lab—in a _controlled_ environment. Okay? Be _careful_."

She snorted. "Take it easy, there, Brucie. I doubt I'll come on any zombie apocalypses down here in the middle of a luau, okay?"

Another long pause. "Right…"

"Anything else, Science Man?"

"No." His voice warmed. "Just be careful, okay, Darce?"

She smiled. "I know. Thanks, Bruce."

"Anytime. Have fun, okay?"

"Will do. Checking that off the list right now, let's see…have fun, have fun. Ah. There it is. Further down than I thought it would be—check. There, I put a big red check mark next to it, okay?"

Bruce chuckled, his voice soft. "Okay. Bye, Darce."

"See ya!" She ended the call and tapped the button for airplane mode before stashing it in the cup holder in the arm rest.

"So. Nothing's changed, then?" Bucky asked, having surely heard the whole thing.

She settled into the bucket seat, looking around at the opulence with some growing reluctance. "Nope."

He nodded. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Perfect. Just gotta avoid the end of the world while we're gone, okay?"

He chuckled. "Might be tough—we'll try."

Darcy sighed, blushing at the flight attendant as she nestled the champagne in the ice-filled brass bucket. "Thanks," she muttered as she strutted off, likely relieved that the days of her dancing around the cabin for the plane's owner were long gone. "This is too much," she said as she sat back in the seat. "It's making me feel really awkward."

Bucky grimaced as he lifted his arm around her. "Right there with you."

The stewardess stalked past again, and Darcy narrowed her eyes as she thought she detected a hint of slowing down, her eyes straying across Darcy's opposite shoulder, tucked against Bucky's chest. But then she was gone again.

She rolled her eyes. "Perfect. How long is it to O'ahu?"

Bucky peered out the window as they picked up speed. "About eleven hours to Honolulu."

" _Ugh_." She slumped. " _Forever_."

He snorted. "Be a lot longer if we weren't in a billionaire's private jet."

"I guess I should be grateful," she grumbled, feeling the heat in her cheeks. The stewardess walked by again, and Darcy was sure this time that she was eyeing up the diamond on her left hand. "Aaand yet I'm not."

His hand came up her back and he combed his warm fingers through her hair. "Why don't you take a nap?" he suggested.

She snorted. "You sound like a desperate parent trying to stop a kid's tantrum in the middle of a crammed United Airlines cabin."

He chuckled. "You've been sleeping for shit lately—you _know_ you have."

She slumped, letting her head tip back against his arm. "…I know."

His hand went through her hair again. "You'll adjust. Just give it time."

She growled out a sigh. "How _much_ time? It's been _two months_!"

" _Exactly_. It's _only_ been two months. Darce. Stevie and I have had— _literally_ —years to get used to this."

She gave him a withered look. "You realize I've passed out three of the last four nights, only to toss and turn after you've already fallen asleep? It's cutting into our sexy fun times, Jamie!"

He smirked affectionately, his hand going back through her hair again. "I didn't marry you for the sex, babe."

She groaned again as the stewardess strutted by. " _Ugh_ , then why _did_ you?"

He laughed lowly in her ear, his hand running down her shoulder, then back up. "Just try to relax. We're on vacation, remember?"

Her ears popped as the plane lifted into the sky, then finally eased as they leveled out. The seatbelt sign winked out and she unbuckled, scooting around in Tony Stark's leather bucket seat until her head was in his lap.

"Better?"

She heard the smile in his voice. "Shut up, Barnes."

His fingers wove through her hair again, cool on her scalp.

She sighed. "That feels really good. What does it say about me that I enjoy being petted like a puppy?"

He snorted again. "Just sleep, Lewis."

She drifted, feeling sappy and safe and warm in his lap, his fingers against her scalp lulling her into a soft state, her eyes falling shut on the beam of sunlight cutting across the snow white carpeting of the cabin.

"Sleep," he murmured, his voice soft and low.

"You think I'll ever learn how to control it?"

The fact that she didn't need to specify for him spoke volumes, she thought. "You'll learn how to _field_ it, not _control_ it. There's a difference."

"Like you've learned to read your…head?" She grimaced at the implication.

But she felt his torso jerk with a silent snort of humor. "Yeah. Exactly."

"That still makes me a freak, though."

His fingers, again, through her long hair. "When you learn your way through it, it'll make you a _force_ , not a _freak_ , dollface."

They fell into comfortable silence again. The stewardess wandered through again as well, her eyes outlining Bucky's broad shoulders. Darcy had never— _never_ —been the jealous type, let alone possessive, but part of her, way, way deep down, wanted to hiss and tell her to fuck off.

Bucky either hadn't noticed or didn't care. She knew him to be ridiculously loyal, and as much as it made her feel cheesy to admit, she trusted his affections to the ends of the earth. A man like Bucky Barnes only took vows for one reason, and only a man that didn't see it as a punishment or akin to locking himself in a cage was capable of taking marriage seriously. She'd be the only woman on the face of the earth to share his bed until the day he died. When two years ago, she'd have laughed at the concept, now she took comfort in it. After so long floating directionless, she felt like her arrow was finally pointing in one single direction. She didn't want anyone else heading in that direction with her.

She sighed. "You know…I felt silly before…this whole week, really. I've felt…kind of stupid."

His hand never slowed. "Why?" He sounded the most relaxed he was capable of, especially anywhere that wasn't their suite—or their bed. He never fully relaxed, Bucky Barnes, not really, not unless he trusted you. And not the regular, average sort of trust, either, but a hard-earned, self-accepting trust that told you he was confident that he liked you enough to not snap and kill you if you moved the wrong way.

"Because I was happy."

"… _Was_?"

She shifted in his lap. "Well, you know what I mean…"

"You felt silly for feeling happy and content?"

She nibbled her lip, feeling her cheeks heat up. "Don't laugh, it's not funny."

"I'm not laughing at you," he said, his voice lower still, though he knew she could hear him, enhanced and new.

She raised her head to look into his face.

But it was the same as always, calm and soft on her, his eyes warm.

"You think I'm crazy?"

An affectionate smile. "Because you were restless in your contentment? Not at all." He shrugged. "I outta know."

She huffed out a laugh. "…Yeah. I guess so." She laid her head back down. "I guess I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"I've felt that way this whole time—since the moment you sat down across from me and started talking."

"Too good to be true?"

"Mm. Keep waiting to wake up in Pierce's chair and find this was all a dream." His fingers stilled in her hair.

She burrowed against him, nuzzling his thigh. "I'm not the type to be content. I've never been content before. It's been that way since I was a kid. I hated my parents. I got out of there as soon as I could."

"When did they split?"

She shrugged. "I was a kid. Dad's a suit, was never home, mom couldn't deal, and she took off when I was little—took the booze and pills right along with her. Haven't spoken to her since."

His hands started moving through her hair again.

"Dad's an ass. Siobhan's my age. I mean, who _does_ that?! Doesn't that just feel… _wrong_?"

Bucky sighed. "Evidently not."

She snorted. "I guess I shouldn't throw stones."

He laughed softly. "Most of the last few decades I spent sleeping, Darce, just like Stevie. Rest assured, I'm physically twenty-nine. Nothing inappropriate. I'm not a cradle-robber."

She giggled, hiding her face against his leg.

He chuckled. "That would be…"

" _Gross_ ," she provided.

He wound her hair into a tail and wrapped his hand around it, lifting it off her neck so he could blow cool air in a stream against the soft skin there.

Her body released and she melted against his lap.

He smiled. Wrapped around his finger. "You are putty in my hands, dollface."

Her only reply was a lazy, sleepy groan.

His smile widened.

"I'll make sure and pay you back for that later, hey?" she mumbled.

He laughed. "Sounds like a plan."

"Or we could just go in the bathroom…"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not too out of touch to be able to know what that means—we are not joining the Mile High Club, Darcy."

She giggled. "Ooh, the full name. That never bodes well."

He sighed.

((()))

Natasha was staring out the window of their eighteenth floor loft when Steve came in, six pack in one hand, brown grocery bag in the other. "Well," he said as he locked the door behind him. "It's official. I can't go to the grocery anymore without being hounded like a celebrity."

Natasha didn't turn. "You are a celebrity, Steve."

He opened the fridge and unloaded the groceries into it; the Dos Eqis, two steaks, some other things in wrappers and deli containers. "Well, if this is what Mark Ruffles goes through every time he walks down a Manhattan street, he can have it."

She snorted, finally turning and crossing the room toward him. " _Ruffalo_ , Steve. Mark _Ruffalo_."

He flushed. "Right. Sorry."

She smiled, but it was forced as she reached past him into the fridge for a beer.

"Hey. You okay?" he asked.

She winced, twisting off the bottle cap and bumping the door shut with a hip. "Fine. Why?"

His eyes narrowed, but she was the damn Black Widow, and she refused to shrink from his all-seeing gaze. Him and Bucky both, it was like they could see an aura around everyone they met, and knew how to decipher each and every one. "You sure?"

She crossed back to the windows and threw herself into the chair there, where he usually sat to do his work, the huge windows perfect for lots of natural light, and she glanced down at his newest sketch, the photograph beside it that he was working off of.

Bucky—smiling—his arm around Darcy. She was leaning forward, laughing— _hard_ —into both hands. She remembered that night. It had been late and Tony had used the bribe of good, expensive food to keep both couples there with him and Pepper. Last winter, just after Darcy had moved in, but before everything had gone to shit. It had worked out in his favor, really, as they'd ended up essentially snowed in for the night. They'd played Two Truths and A Lie late, late, into the early morning, and Tony had suggested that one drunken escapade from his youth had led to Rhodey—not present to defend himself—had gone home with a cross-dresser. Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course, he'd insisted—if you weren't straight as a rail.

Clearly, Steve remembered that fondly as well, or he wouldn't be using the photograph—camera wielded by a sneaky Pepper after one too many glasses of champagne—as a belated personal wedding gift.

"You gonna paint this or leave it as is?"

Steve approached behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders and squeezing. "Wasn't sure yet. Probably leave it. You…sure you're okay?"

"You ever find out if Tony's story about Rhodey was true?"

He sighed. "No. Tash…"

She slumped back in the chair and took a pull off her Mexican beer. "They left this morning."

There was a pause and she knew Steve was working out why this would bother her. "Yeah. I know. Why…is that bad?"

She sighed. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Steve."

He came around and leaned on the arm of the chair. "Why? They're with Tony's people, right? You know he runs a tight ship. It's his place."

She nodded. "Yeah. I know. Just…"

He reached up and brushed a strand of her hair behind an ear. She'd left it straight and long this morning—the way he liked it—rather than pulled back off her neck. "Just what?"

She couldn't look at him, but studied her beer, picking at the green and red label. "I've got a bad feeling in by _gut_ , Rogers."

He nodded, then sighed, glancing up out the window for a moment. "In this business, it's easy to worry constantly. I mean, we _all_ know that. But…are you sure you're not—"

"I'm not imagining it, Steve." She worked to soften her voice. This wasn't his fault and she had to let it be okay when he tried to comfort her. That was what a husband did, right? "It's just…I've had a long time to get used to knowing when there was really something there. You know?"

He nodded, but didn't argue. "You wanna call them?"

She huffed, shaking her head., "Pointless."

He shrugged. "No, it's not—not if there's genuine call to worry—"

"There probably _isn't_ , Steve, and they're under enough stress as it is." She took another sip of her beer. "I'm probably just worrying over Darce. And she can't get much safer than the Winter Soldier, can she?"

A wry smirk. "Not really, no."

She nodded.

"You've, uh…gotten pretty close, lately…you and Darcy, huh?"

She nibbled on her lip, but didn't say anything.

"That's a _good_ thing, Nat. In our world…you can use all the allies you can get, right? She's…good. Darcy. Never has any ulterior motives. She was just what I needed after I came outta the ice. And sometimes Dr. Foster is a little distracted to do much good, so…it's a good thing. Just…if you're gonna call, be sure about it, you know?"

"Shut up, Rogers," she said, voice low.

He stood. "Okay."

((()))

By the time they finally landed Darcy had napped and finished half of her new book. Bucky beat her ass at checkers half a dozen times on her tablet, and he'd shooed off the flight attendant half that amount, finally giving her an annoyed scowl that caused her to turn clear around in complete view, halfway across the private cabin. Darcy had been unable to hide her snort of laughter, but she did attempt to muffle it against his chest while he sighed and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "God…like I'm a piece of meat."

"You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?"

He gave an annoyed grunt.

She snickered as she gathered her carryon. "And that hair. I mean, Jesus, Barnes."

He only sighed and swatted at her butt to get her moving.

((()))

"Nice Downward Facing Dog."

"Tell me something I don't know," Darcy called from her bent up position, her voice carrying over the sound of the surf off the front deck. She dropped down into Plank and pulled a Vinyasa flow through to Cobra Pose. "This one's better—take a look," she teased as she sank into the stretch.

"Oh, trust me—I am," he quipped as he wandered past with his cup of coffee.

She gave an airy laugh. "You should join me. Yoga's even better when you have nothing to do after you're done."

He chuckled as he slid the sliding door open. "Maybe tomorrow."

"I'm holding you to that, Soldier Boy," she said with a wink. She'd gotten him into Yoga and Meditation a few months back, and while it had hadn't done anything to quell his nightmares, it did help him sleep better.

"I know you are."

She stepped back up into a forward fold.

"Were you dreaming?" he suddenly asked, his voice pitched strangely in the large room, and it echoed into the deep acoustics of the high ceiling and exposed beams.

She drew up into a half bend, frowning. "Huh?"

He turned his back on the expansive view of the oceanfront and faced her. "Hm?"

She blinked, confused, her head going fuzzy, likely from the zigzag of her blood pressure. She shook it out and came up into Mountain Pose. "You asked me something…?"

He cocked a brow. "Nope."

She stared at him.

He turned his head at a quizzical angle. "You okay? You look kinda pale."

She shrugged. "I think so. Weird…"

He set down his coffee. "You wanna go for a walk on the beach?"

She rolled her eyes. "You need to ask?"

((()))

Tony had been right, of course. The house wasn't huge or sprawling—at least by Stark standards—but it was set up like an open-air cottage of sorts, with exposed beams, lots of woodwork and a gorgeous deck overlooking the promised expanse of private beach. There was a bar and a hot tub and a set of stairs that led down into the sand. The kitchen and living area were an open plan design, a dining table tucked into one corner and a TV larger than any Darcy had ever seen—including the big screen in their suite in New York.

The California King in the Master Suite was bigger than their bed back home too, and even Bucky couldn't reach all sides of it from the center. She laughed the next morning as he tried, stretching out, but she stopped laughing when he grabbed her and hauled her on top of him.

((()))

"You still feel stupid for feeling happy?" he asked later as they lounged on the deck.

She settled deeper into his shoulder and sighed as she sipped her wine. "This has all happened so fast and it's all so surreal that it's giving me whiplash," she murmured. "Venus?" she questioned, pointing up at a particularly bright point in the night sky.

His mouth pressed against her temple. "No," he mumbled. "That's Mars, babe."

" _Damn_ it. You'd never know I spent two years with Janey Poo."

He exhaled a laugh. "Well. There's a lot going on out there."

She snorted. "Yeah, I guess we answered the question: 'are there aliens?'"

He chuckled. "Funny. That was never a concern when I was a kid."

She burrowed against his side. "Just busy trying to keep your heads above water?"

"Exactly."

She shivered.

He drew his hand up her arm and rubbed, creating warmth. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just chilly."

He pulled her more snugly against him. "Not an episode, is it?"

She shook her head. "No. Those come on differently."

He took a pull off his Corona, the lime bouncing against the glass of the bottle. "What's it feel like?"

She hummed, thinking. "Hard to describe. Like a trembling or a vibrating in my gut."

"Where you were impaled?" He swallowed reflexively at the reminder.

"Mm-hmm. And it sort of radiates outward, like a gong being struck, all the way out to my fingertips. By the time it reaches my toes, the shaking has turned into pain and the shivers set in." She shivered again.

He tightened his embrace again. "It's like you're experiencing the initial effects of the serum over and over again, like its engrained in your body's muscle memory and you keep triggering it."

She sighed. "Well, whatever it is, it's fucking torture." She ran her other hand down his thigh and gestured with her wine glass. "Ursa Major?"

"Very good." He took another pull off his beer. "This isn't half bad."

"Told you." She moved her hand. "The Big Dipper?"

"That one's easy."

"I always liked Orion."

He nodded. "The Hunter."

"Where's he?"

"You can't see him in the summer, dollface. He sets with the sun."

She sighed. "Lame."

He laughed.

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the only sound the crashing of low tide below.

She set her head to his shoulder. "Times like this I wish I had a family to share this with." She blushed, deliberately not looking up at him. "To share _you_ with."

"Technically, you do," he said gently, his voice low. She could be like a twitchy rabbit with her family, ready to bolt whenever the subject came up. He knew enough not to mention it often; knew her anger and hatred was rooted in old, old hurt, so old it had rusted around her and oxidized into bitter carelessness.

She sighed. "Just because they _knocked boots_ and had me does _not_ make them my family."

He had to work not to chuckle at her choice of phrasing. "I wasn't talking about your parents, sweetheart."

She grumbled under her breath.

He smirked. "You've got family all around you, Darce."

She wouldn't look up at him; she _wouldn't_. "The Winter Soldier isn't supposed to be this _cheesy_."

He snorted. "I'm serious. You can choose the people you surround yourself with. You could've left Jane when you finished your degree, you couldn't said 'fuck it' and ditched her and ditched Thor, and washed your hands of it. You could've told Tony to take his offer of a job and shove it. But you didn't. Why?"

She set her wine down, purposely looking the other way, though she knew she'd never fool him, not Mr. Alter Ego, not in a million years. Sometimes, she swore, the man could see through her like she wasn't even there. "Because I loved Jane." She shrugged, ducking her head as she stared down into her lap. "And maybe I loved Thor, the big idiot. And…maybe it occurred to me, at some point, that my self-destructive thrill-seeking had sort of turned into an actual job that I somehow enjoyed."

He smiled, reaching down to sweep her hair from her face. "And?"

"And I love Pepper, and I love Wanda, although she can be kind of prickly. And I love Nat. She…gets us."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "Her and Boss Man. They were the only ones that didn't look at me like I'd lost my marbles after we started going out."

He smirked.

She finally looked up at him. "It's not funny. You're…not funny. What happened to you—"

"Shouldn't be taken lightly. But if I hadn't found a way to find humor in my condition, Darcy…I wouldn't have survived the aftermath."

She sighed. "So you would've looked at me like I was crazy too, then?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe."

"Natasha, she just _gets_ you and gets me, and gets us, _together_ , and she doesn't require an explanation, she doesn't need a full-on report about any of it, you know? And Boss Man…"

He waited.

She struggled. "Boss Man, he's…"

He gave her the softest smile he could muster. "Go ahead and say it…"

She bit her lip, looking away again.

"You'll feel better if you do," he coaxed.

She slumped. "Alright, alright, I love the dumb jerk, okay? He's a total _dad_ and I didn't even know I was missing that, okay?"

He snorted. "Jesus, Darce. It's not like this is Confession. You don't have to feel weird, saying these things out loud."

She curled into his side and wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking her head under his chin and burrowing against him. "I had an easier time telling you that I'd fallen madly in love with you," she murmured.

He set his chin at the crown of her head and switched his beer to the other hand so he could run the other up her back.

"You still think you're a monster?" she murmured, sounding half asleep.

He glanced down at her. "Not currently. But I was one. I can't color the page different color now, you know? It's already done."

She surprised him and didn't argue with his reasoning. "Well. Then I'm hopelessly in love with a monster."

He smiled. "Beauty and the Beast, right?"

"That would mean I'm the beauty," she scoffed.

"You're a knockout, dollface."

"I'm a little surprised I haven't had an episode yet, actually. It likes to happen when I'm super relaxed."

He smirked. "Thought you were a strong believer in The Jinx, Lewis."

She nuzzled against him. "Yeah, I should shut my trap."

"I could go get you _un_ -relaxed, if you want…"

She giggled softly, already moving. "Well…since you're offering."

((()))

They spent much of the next day in bed, only getting up to eat, before returning. Darcy mentioned feeling guilty at not having anything to do, then shrieked like a banshee when he teased and grabbed at her, calling her a workaholic.

They went for a walk just after sunset, the shoreline a fuzzy blue-gray, and Darcy tiptoed after a lone seagull until it finally fled. She waded in, dragging him by the hand, but even though he warned her, she splashed him anyway, giggling and squirming as he hauled her into deeper waters, snared in his arms until he was shoulder deep and they were both soaked.

They crashed through the door off the deck not long after, groping blindly into the dark living room, all tangled up. Bucky was uncharacteristically graceless as he fumbled with the door lock at his back, and she laughed as he pulled her closer, slanting his mouth across hers in a hungry kiss.

She sighed as his hands slid under her white t-shirt, glad she'd only bothered with one of his shirts and a pair of shorts, and his hands were warm on her cold, damp skin, even his left a tolerable temperature in the humid Hawaiian air. His fingers traced shapes on the small of her back, making her arch against him, her fingers straying to the button on his jeans. She yanked the zipper down and slid her hand beneath, and he hummed into her mouth as she touched him.

His t-shirt was pulled over her head and tossed to the floor, soaking wet. Before she could make any such progress on her own, she was suddenly lifted into his arms and carried—her legs wrapped around his waist—through to the master bedroom.

He lowered her carefully to the foot of the bed and went to work easing off her heavy, wet shorts, his mouth straying up her leg as he went through his task. He nipped her with his teeth along the high inside of her thigh, making her jerk and clutch at his hair. "Mm…" she mewled, jerking harder as he bit down, the sting burning its way straight to her core, even as he soothed it with his tongue, edging higher.

She tugged at his hair. "As talented as I have no doubt you are with that mouth, I am _so_ _not_ kissing you afterward if you go down on me, Barnes," she sighed breathlessly.

He smiled against the sensitive skin of her leg and set her shorts aside.

She pulled at the waistband of his jeans. "God, get these off, like _now_ ," she moaned plaintively.

He slid them off, pausing to pull his t-shirt off as well, coming to standing where he towered over her, lying, prone and restless, a lithe, tempting form on the bed.

It was all so surreal.

By the time they were settled and he was buried deep in her, warm and sweet, he could only stare down at her, lying content beneath him, her heart pounding against his belly. "You _actually_ married me," he whispered.

She smiled warmly, reaching up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind his ear. "I know. Can I plead temporary insanity?"

He shook his head. " _I_ married _you_."

She smirked affectionately. "Glad as I am for the refresher course, are you okay, baby?" She slid her nails down his back and over his ass, drawing a hiss from him, and he bit his lip, pressing his face against her shoulder.

"Fine. Just…thinking."

She pulled her fingers through his hair, tugging hard. "The Winter Soldier thinks _too much_." She turned her head to press a kiss to his cheekbone. "Tell him to shut the fuck up, Jamie."

"This feels just as surreal to me. You're not the only one with whiplash. Sometimes I still feel like you're asleep…"

She blinked, her head going fuzzy again. "You mean, you feel like _you're_ still asleep? Like, with HYDRA?" She clutched at his shoulders as her head balanced out again, her ears ringing.

But he didn't seem to notice. "Right."

She sighed, rolling her hips against him, not that he gave her much room. "Well, you're awake. And if you don't start moving, I'm gonna _combust_."

He smiled at her demanding tone, snapping his hips as he leaned down to kiss her. "Yes, ma'am."

((()))

When she woke the next morning, everything was fuzzy and warm, soft light and the room looked overexposed, like a photograph taken when there'd been too much light allowed into the shutter. She sighed, not daring to shift as she looked across at Bucky, facing her on his side, still asleep, his arm draped across her middle and his hand splayed protectively over the shape of her backside.

She smiled, trying not to twitch. He was so attuned, after years and years of being told when to be awake and when to be asleep, that he could wake in a snap. His still being asleep when she woke was so rare; she had to take it when it was offered.

She raised her hand and studied her ring, the bright platinum reflecting the white sheets, gathered in a sea around them. She kept finding herself doing that—staring at the expensive mineral set in the metal—like it held answers. She couldn't deny how content she'd been during the past year with him, how settled she'd felt and uncharacteristically sure of herself. She'd never felt so eased before in her entire life. She'd spent the majority of it so far bouncing from place to place, both literally and figuratively, restless and discontent. Now that she'd found what she hadn't known she'd been looking for, the anxiety that she was in a place where it could go up in smoke at any moment was a constant prickling at the back of her neck.

She wasn't completely in denial. She knew that was half her problem, half the reason for her panic disorder. She'd not had any attacks since they'd arrived, though, which she was pretty sure was a good thing. But as she thought about going back in two-week's time, she was sure her pounding heart wasn't her imagination.

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's not gonna disappear."

She turned her head.

Bucky was watching her quietly, his eyes bright from sleep, a captivating turquoise blue that matched the sea out the massive windows. "You okay?"

She shifted closer to him, sliding against him and tucking her head under his chin. "I don't think so."

He adjusted his arm, sliding his metal palm up her back to settle between her shoulder blades. "You don't think so? We're on vacation. You're supposed to be okay on vacation."

She set her palm to his belly and felt the hard ridges of his abdominals under her hand. "That's just it; I don't want to go back."

He laughed softly.

"I'm serious. We shouldn't go back."

He stilled, his mouth coming to rest on her temple. "What's wrong?" His voice was so damn soft and lilting, sweet and coaxing that she couldn't stand it.

"This feels…precarious. And fragile. And if we go back, it could shatter—like glass."

His hand ran up her spine and his middle finger pressed against her _vertebra prominens_ and kept pressure up the center of her neck, into her hairline, and then moved back down again. "Stop clenching your teeth," he gently reminded her.

She sighed, easing the pressure in her jaw, not even aware she'd been doing it.

"I kind of thought what we had was a little stronger than _glass_. I mean, I didn't think it was quite _that_ breakable," he said offhandedly, his voice low. "I mean, I was thinking more along the lines of steel. We got through the last six months. I'd say that's a pretty significant test we passed, there."

She pressed her face against his heart. "Not what we have, _together_. Just… _what we have_. I think that's what's been giving me all this underlying anxiety lately."

But he took it in stride; _how_ did he take _so much_ in stride? "What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath. "Sometimes, living the way we do, I can swear I can feel it slipping through my fingers. Like it'll disappear in a wisp of smoke, like it was never there. If we go back, it just raises the chances of something tearing it out from under us."

He was quiet for a long, long moment. When he finally spoke, he said the very last thing she'd ever expect. "Do you wanna leave SHIELD?"

She jerked back from him. "What? No! I…I love everyone too much." She huffed out a frustrated breath. "Like that would help. No. They wouldn't let us, first off, and second—"

"It doesn't matter, because I'll always be a target," he filled in.

She sighed. "So will I, now."

He looked down at her, hard, holding her gaze with a steady, stern look. "Don't mar this worrying about things that might never come to pass. You'll just ruin it for yourself."

She swallowed, nodding.

"All any of this means is that we have to hold onto each other a little harder than normal people." He shook his head. "Don't let go of me. Okay?"

She looked down, unable to bear the look in his eyes.

But he gripped her head in his large, vibranium hand and tilted her neck, forcing her to meet his unflinching gaze. "It's not gonna be easy. Nothing like this ever is, and I outta know. We're gonna have to wade through plenty of muck. We're going to have to rely on our faith in each other. We can't waver, not for one second, because that's when they swoop in—trust me, baby. Whatever happens. You hold on to me as tightly as you can. And you don't let me go for anything, do you hear me? Don't let go of my hand. Okay?"

She swallowed against the tears rising in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "You're right—I'm ruining this."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize, you haven't done anything wrong. I understand, sweetheart. I understand. Just try to let this go—at least for now. It wouldn't do to let it eat at you."

She nodded. "You're right, you're right."

He drew her back in to press a kiss to her forehead. His mouth trailed along her cheekbone, down, tracing the line of her jaw, then softly traversed her throat, pausing along the throbbing of her pulse.

"You trying to distract me, Soldier Boy?"

He smiled against her throat, his left hand trailing down, under the sheets, traveling. "Is it working?"

She swatted at him. "No."

He set his mouth to hers and kissed her, a sweet, warm kiss, a kiss with intent. "How about now?"

She pulled back to look into his face. "I'm sorry. I know I…I have trouble with…" She swallowed, looking down at her hand, splayed open on his sternum.

"Trust?" he offered.

She sighed again, letting her eyes slide shut as she sprawled out beside him. "Yeah…I guess."

He smiled. "That's one of those things that you didn't need to say, Darce. I know."

She rolled her eyes.

His metal hand ran up her arm. "I'm sorry that your childhood was hard."

She nodded, swallowing. "Dad would blow a gasket, he knew I was here with you." She smirked. "I take comfort in that."

He laughed. "You take comfort in the fact that you married a deadly assassin?"

She shrugged, smirking. "An assassin who doesn't even need a gun. Now that's badass."

"It's creepy."

"Creepy can be sexy."

"Stop talking, Lewis."

She disentangled their limbs and sat up. "I need coffee."

But he snared her round the waist and she shrieked as he hauled her back down. "Mm, no, you don't."

She giggled as he pinned her down, his mouth trailing up her throat again, and she tangled her fingers in his hair. "Mm, morning sex. My favorite."

((()))

That was pretty much how the trip went—soft quiet conversation mixed in with bouts of passion so intense that one time, they didn't even make it to the bed. Laughing, she stumbled into the couch, but instead of dragging her the rest of the way, he'd just bent her over the arm and trapped her there, one hand on her hip, the other braced around her shoulder, keeping them steady. For all her experience, this had never been a pleasant one for Darcy before—but that quickly changed, the sharp angle and the pressing heel of his hand causing her to cry out—embarrassingly loudly—in only a few short minutes. She'd always prided herself on not being a screamer, and the escalation of her voice from pleading moans and whimpers to harsh cries surprised even her. He was uncharacteristically rough, and she blushed later as she went over the memory, recalling with blunt clarity the sound he'd drawn from her throat, his hands tight on her body. Then she woke him up to do it again, curious if he could achieve the same result when not tripping through a rushed moment.

He could.

In fact, just the set up was enough for her, his knee between her legs, his metal fingers folding over hers around the headboard, his mouth closing around her shoulder. It was on the knife-edge of painful, and though she'd never been that type of girl in bed before, the hard edges of his body set her on fire. When his fingers set to stroking, she was beyond lost; putty in his hands, and she gritted her teeth against the shriek when he brought her up to the edge and pushed her over, too many sensations wracking her to keep it all locked up. By the time she'd run out of energy to push back against him, and by the time his teeth closed around her shoulder and he was spent, she was shaking in the struggle to hold herself up. She wasn't sure where she found the strength to arch her back, his mouth running soft butterfly kisses along the dewy skin over her shoulder blades.

They didn't get out of bed again all day.

It was like a dream, felt too soft and satisfying and content to be anything else.

The sensation followed her around.

When they walked into town and ambled along the streets, sifting through the sidewalk shopping.

When he laughed, bright and open, his eyes hidden behind his Ray Bans.

When they had dinner out on the deck and walked down the beach, hand in hand, as the sun set.

As Olga stared at Bucky's snug t-shirt and khaki shorts and then gave Darcy a mischievous look and a suggestive wink from behind the refrigerator door.

As it occurred to her that she should be exhausted—not to mention sore—over all this activity, romantic or otherwise, if it weren't for her serum working it's magic.

As she was overcome with a warm sense of happiness she hadn't had the guts to let herself feel and she started crying all over him in bed, explaining to him in weepy sighs that God, she loved him, and please don't let this end, and he didn't laugh at her at all.

It was like a dream.


	2. Chapter 2: Starlight

**Chapter 2** **: Starlight**

 **Summary:** **It's one of two things that are making Darcy feel edgy, and on her honeymoon of all times:**  
 **1) The disgruntled call from her asshole father; or**  
 **2) Her wonderful serum rearing it's ugly head.** **Can you hear her sarcasm?**

 **Notes:** **Okay, guys. I'm really sorry for the wait. This installment's been giving me major trouble this go around. Not sure why, but I haven't hit my groove yet. Then there was some vacation in there, and then a little thing called The Olympics, which I'm a huge, huge fan of. Been a bit distracted by gorgeous swimmers (has anyone noticed Miller? Also-Water Polo. Who knew, right?) So, apologies, but here's the next chapter. I've got a little padding left before I catch up to posting where I'm at, so hopefully I can widen the distance before we get there.** **This one's a mixed bag. There's some humor in angry phone calls. There's some fluff and angst. Then there's some more angst at the end. Title taken from the wonderful, wonderful, appropriately angsty and romantic song by Muse.** **Again, sorry to keep you guys waiting (if you really were waiting, that is. I'm never sure) Let me know how you like/what your thoughts are/what you think is happening or might want to happen. With this one giving me trouble, at this point, I might be up for options. If nothing else, a suggestion, even if not used word-for-word, might just plain old give me a boost along. So if there's something floating in your head or you have random thoughts, feel free to toss them my way. Love y'all.** **Also, I always forget this: I DO NOT OWN MARVEL. Marvel owns Marvel. And possibly the largest array of attractive men all in one place that I have ever seen. Wow, that makes me sound shallow. Well, this chapter outta be proof that I'm really not. Okay, I'll stop typing now.** **((()))** "Darcy?"

She jerked awake one morning a week later, looking around.

The sun was rising, casting everything in a molten glow.

Bucky was asleep beside her, the sheets low on his gorgeous hips, barely decent, covering his butt.

She frowned, shaking off the remnants of sleep and pulling a hand through her mussed hair. She stared down at him for a moment, watching the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, flat on his stomach, one arm beneath the pillow, one having slipped from her arm.

God, she could've sworn it was his voice she'd heard speaking, clear as day. She knew his voice inside and out, could pick it out anywhere. The warm timber of it had power over her and she was sure she could pick it out on a crowded Manhattan street in the middle of the Times Square New Year's celebration.

But he didn't talk in his sleep; he never had.

She blinked, but shook her head. "Weird dream," she muttered, sliding carefully out of the bed to avoid disturbing him, and plucked her phone from the bedside table where she'd left it the night prior.

She grabbed her light silk robe from the hook by the bath and slid it on over the lace teddy she'd brought, black and exactly what she'd guess he'd like, tying the cinch and hitting some buttons on her Starkphone, chewing on her lip as she followed the short hallway out into the open plan of the living area.

She was restless now, and she wasn't sure why.

She couldn't shake the awful sensation that something weird was going on and it made her nervous that they were so far from home, New York an entire country away. She saw that she had a voicemail and hit the icon.

 _You missed a call that came in at approximately 2:12 this morning, Eastern Standard Time,_ JARVIS told her, like it wasn't already obvious.

New York.

 _You also have a message, Miss Lewis. Would you prefer to listen to it now?_

She smirked. "Yes."

 _As you wish. Playing message._

"Hey, Short Stack. Just your Boss Man. Or…whatever you wanna call me. Um…" Tony sounded uncharacteristically awkward. "Just checking in, I guess. Don't worry, everything's fine over here, nothing earth-shattering going on, you're not missing anything. Just, uh…I dunno."

She smiled.

"I miss ya, kiddo. I wanted you outta here so bad and now here I sit. The reports are piling up, so you'll have plenty to do when you get back. I was so desperate I almost did them for you, but I didn't wanna mess up your system so I put them back." He chuckled. "Listen to me, leaving sad, pathetic voicemails." He sighed. "I hope you're having fun. No, wait, I hope you're relaxing. You two need a little downtime. Like, _bad_. Anyway…it's been pretty quiet here, actually—too quiet, and you know how much that makes me nervous. Been tearing out my hair. Steve came round looking for you, just after ya left, think he wanted to go out on a double with you to that festival that's going on. Think he forgot you were gone. The Spider came in, all grumpy about it, so safe to say you're missed by people who _aren't_ me."

She laughed.

"Funny, how you end up with two families in your life, eh? I mean, I dunno, dad and I, we weren't on the best and then…well…but now here everyone is, living in my tower, coming and going. You two. You two are…" He hesitated, sighing again. "Well, I miss you. So come back soon. But not too soon." Another long pause. "I, uh…"

She nibbled on her lower lip, her heart kicking up.

"Well…I love ya, Short Stack. I'll see ya. Pep sends her love and a hug for Buck."

The phone beeped.

 _End of message. Would you like to keep or discard, Miss Lewis?_ JARVIS asked.

She smiled. "Keep."

 _As you wish. Message saved. You have no more messages or missed calls. Would you like to return the call?_

She chuckled. "No, J. Later."

 _"_ _Of course. The weather at your location today promises to be much the same as yesterday, according to local reports. Clear and sunny with few overlying clouds, with a high of 87 degrees Fahrenheit. No chance of rain, with a humidity level of eighty percent. With a high ultraviolet index, might I suggest the use of sunscreen?_

She chuckled. "Okay, J."

 _Is there any other information I might provide for you, Miss Lewis?_

She rolled her eyes at Tony's marvelous programming talents. "No, J. Thank you for the weather."

 _Of course._

The phone beeped.

Chuckling and shaking her head, she crossed into the kitchen and hit the button on the coffee maker, pulling out the creamer and a spoon and two mugs. If her leaving the bed didn't do the trick, usually the aroma of coffee roused her sleeping husband.

 _Husband_.

She still marveled at the word.

But it didn't banish the uncomfortable unsettled- _ness_ about her, even as she chewed on her thumbnail and studied the gorgeous glow of the new sun, just barely full against the crashing tide. She wasn't often restless. _Active_ , yes, but not restless and she was slightly embarrassed by the notion that Bucky was likely the only solution. Or, more precisely, his body. She was sure it was about emotional comfort or some cheesy bullshit, but she had the sneaking suspicion that the only soothing she'd find would be in him—or, rather, him…in her. She flushed just thinking about it, like their lovemaking was some dirty, shameful thing.

Behind her, the coffee machine started to gurgle, and she jumped at the sudden noise in the silence, the prickling in her neck becoming a tingle, and she set her palm to her belly, reflexively tensing for an episode. Maybe that was what it was: she was waiting for one, on pins and needles, even though she'd gone all week without one.

"Goddamn it," she muttered, pulling her hands through her hair again, smoothing it down and sweeping it off her neck.

Her phone started jangling on the countertop behind her, making her jump again.

 _Incoming call_ , JARVIS announced.

She spun, peering at the screen, photo-less and giving her no hint to who it was. She studied the number. "2-0-2 area code? Why does that sound familiar?" Never one to ignore if she could help it, just in case it was important, she picked it up and swiped the screen. "Hello?"

"Darcy. _Pumpkin_. What's this _garbage_ I just heard about you getting _married_?"

She flinched, her whole body tensing. " _Nathan_. Hi."

"Since when do you call me ' _Nathan'_? Were you planning on telling your father you'd tied the knot with some half life from Orange County or were you going to keep that a secret too?"

She blinked. "I've never been to Orange County in my life—where do you get these weird-ass ideas?"

But her father had always been one for exposition; he cut right to the chase. " _Who is he?_ " he demanded.

She sighed, her gut tingling ominously as the coffee machine kept up a cheerful soundtrack in complete juxtaposition to the entire situation. " _Hi, Dad. Long time, no see. I've been fine. How about you? Mom? No, haven't heard from her, just like the last three times you asked. Have you? How's Siobhan? Still spreading her poison around Jersey?_ " she carried on flatly, as though they had ever had a normal conversation in her entire life.

And just when Tony had left her that wonderful message. How ironic, that the man she'd come to _know_ as her father had been interrupted by her _real_ , _asshole_ variety father.

He sighed across the line. "Darcy. I'm serious. I demand to know."

" _Demand_?" she drawled, her irritation quickly rising to a simmer and bubbling dangerously high. " _Oh_! You know what? I just realized, _just_ now, _just_ in this moment, that I forgot to tell you something— _totally_ forgot—isn't that _funny_?!"

" _Darcy_ …" he said again, a warning in his tone, growing sharper. "I'm _serious_."

"I got married. Yeah. Can you _believe_ it— _me_ , of all people! Your daughter, the, uh…What was it you called me, again? The ' _hopeless, future drug-addict alcoholic little beast that was the only product of your first marriage'_? Was that it? I forget—I mean, let me know if I left out a word or something, would you?"

"Darcy, God _damn_ it!" he swore, his voice sharpening. "I did not get to the office early to make this call so that you could give me your attitude."

She laughed. "Oh, God. You got up early and everything? You _do_ care!" Then she let her tone drop. "So sorry to interrupt your sexual fantasy life with the _woman-child_."

"Darcy, I swear to God!"

" _What_?" she snapped, the anger coming to a sharp boil. "How _old_ am I? Do I require your permission to marry anyone?"

This deflated him a bit. "Well, it would've been nice to have been informed."

"Why? So you could send a cheap bottle of wine? Give me a fucking break, Nate."

He paused. "It is a man, right?" he sneered.

She yanked her hand roughly through her hair again. "Oh, _God_ …"

"Since when don't you call me 'dad', anyway?"

She pressed the heel of her palm to her belly, scowling and wincing as the area over her right eye began throbbing dully. "Since I was ten and you told me you didn't have time for…what was it? Oh, right— _childish_ _games_."

A short pause. "So…?"

"I _was_ a child!" she snapped. " _What the fuck_ , dude?"

There was slight pressure on her left shoulder and she jumped, twisting to find Bucky pressing his mouth against her skin, where her robe had fallen off her clavicle. His arms came around her waist and his hands splayed down her thighs, tugging her in close for a moment. Her heart squeezed at what was obviously supposed to be a sweet gesture meant to calm her, even though it utterly failed. He pressed his face against her neck and released her.

"And this was what I meant, Darcy Jane. So, now that we've gotten this childish tantrum out of the way, would you be so kind as to tell me about this mysterious guy? Or is this some made up game like you used to play, with your imaginary friends?"

She would not cry, she would _not_. No matter if they were angry tears or no, she would not give Nathaniel Lewis, CEO of Pharmacon Global and _worst father on the face of the planet_ , the satisfaction of knowing he could still get under her skin. "He's someone I work with," she said, voice flat, offering nothing further, just watching as the man in question went around her to the coffee pot and poured. His mug was straight black—as always, ever the military man—but hers he only filled halfway, replacing the pot, then adding her hazelnut cream, filling the cup the rest of the way, stirring, replacing the bottle, setting the spoon in the sink and sliding it over to her across the counter with a gentle smile.

She mouthed a desperate _thank you_ and pulled it closer.

He nodded, leaning over the 'L' shape of the counter to face her as he sipped, naked but for a pair of boxer briefs, and he paused to unfurl her hand from around the mug and bring it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her palm. Her stomach fluttered.

" _And_ …?" Nathaniel pressed further. "Name?"

She sighed stubbornly.

Bucky winked, able to hear everything plain as day.

"James," she muttered.

"And what does he do?"

She rolled her eyes, taking a breath. "Oh, you know…just your everyday assassin."

Bucky coughed, hurrying to swallow his mouthful of coffee, and looked up at her with surprised eyes.

She gave him a mischievous look.

He smirked back.

But Nate wasn't convinced. "Uh-huh. Right. No, really, Darce. What's he do?"

She shrugged. "Well, I guess you could say he's in information trafficking and security…" she hedged.

Bucky snorted.

"Can he support you?"

Could he…? Hm… She rolled her eyes. "And then some."

"Oh, _really_? Are you sure?"

She sighed. "Well, for starters, I'm wearing a three-carat diamond wedding ring, so…I'll let you be the judge of that."

A long pause. "Ah. Well. Okay, then. Why wasn't any of this made public? I had to find out because Siobhan heard from a friend of a friend. After that, I had one of our little sleuths here at the company do a little hacking—not that I approve of your talents in the area."

Their eyes met and Bucky's narrowed suspiciously.

She changed the subject. "And how is Siobhan lately?" she asked in her sweetest voice.

"She's out on a little vacation with a couple of her girlfriends, actually," he said.

She snorted. "Oh, _really_? _Girl_ friends. _Right_. I'll just bet."

A long sigh. "Darcy, _don't_ start—"

"What else has she got—your credit card?"

"How old is this _James_?"

She couldn't stop the smile from curling her mouth as she looked at him. "Twenty-nine."

"And he's capable of supporting you?" he asked, skeptical.

"Well, he's wise beyond his years," she quipped.

Bucky chuckled.

"So. Can I go, now? I was having a seriously great time. We're out here in Hawaii, best trip ever, until you called and interrupted it with your yuppie yammering. So if you don't mind—"

"You're using protection?" he suddenly asked, his voice its sharpest yet.

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Darcy sighed. " _Wow_."

"You're not knocked up, are you? Would explain you snagging a guy can afford a ring like—"

But then the phone was gone from her hand, and she stuttered, gaping, as Bucky turned on the speaker and held it between them. "Mr. Lewis?"

She stared, her mouth open.

"And you are?"

"James, Sir."

"Ah. She's not knocked up, is she? Bun in the oven?"

"No, Sir. Most definitely not." A charming, mischievous smile. "Don't think that's happening anytime soon."

She groaned. "Nathan, there are no buns, and no ovens!

Bucky winked.

She rolled her eyes. "Oven's broken, anyway," she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing…"

"And how long have you been involved with my daughter, James?"

"About a year, Sir."

" _Only_ a year? Doesn't that seem a bit fast?"

Their eyes met again. "Well. When you know, you know, isn't that what they say, Sir?"

A deep, authoritative sigh. "Well, yes, if you're an insipid—"

But that didn't stop her Jamie. "We've been through a lot, Sir. It felt like it was time."

For the first time Darcy could ever recall in her entire life, Nathaniel Lewis was speechless.

With a smirk, Bucky offered the phone back to her, hitting the speaker button again. "I think this is your cue."

She was still staring into his eyes when her father managed to reclaim his voice. "Nate?"

"Well…he seems…decent."

"He's better than decent."

"Well, I don't know—"

"He's wonderful."

Bucky looked away, his body language softening. His opinion of himself was still something he struggled with, and likely always would, no matter how long he lived.

"Darcy, now, don't go off into that head of yours, okay? Remember how you used to get? This isn't some fairy tale and he's not some prince on horseback—"

She burst out with a giggle. "You're telling the wrong person that this isn't a fairy tale, Nate. Trust me. You have no goddamn idea."

He made a scoffing sound. "What would it take to get you to stop calling me that and to start calling me 'dad'?"

She paused, looking down into the smooth, creamy surface of her coffee, suddenly sober. "Go back in time and earn it?"

Bucky took up her hand again and began kneading at her palm with his large thumb. It was callused and slightly rough after years and years of combat and weapons handling, and she wondered if he realized how those hands often felt on her sensitive skin. He was damnably charming and he was a fucking dog when he was trying to mess with her, but she doubted he'd made a connection that subtle—at least to someone as classy as he could be. Redoubling her efforts in never telling him and therefore giving him even more ammunition to use against her in his already overflowing seduction arsenal, she pressed her hip harder into the counter to distract from the flame of want he unknowingly set ablaze in her.

Damn serum.

But she didn't look at him, couldn't.

"I haven't earned it simply in _raising_ you?"

"No."

The longest pause yet.

"You haven't raised me, you ass. That's not how it works. That's never been how it works. You don't get to act like a bastard and pick and choose when you get to care. You don't get to switch it up somewhere between in and out. Men like you don't understand what that means, being all in. I'm just lucky that I've stumbled across a few in my life willing to bend over backwards for me. To put themselves in the line of fire."

"In the _line of fire_?! I thought you were a clerk—"

"And I'm looking at one right now that puts you to shame."

Silence.

"Bye. _Dad_."

She hung up, setting her Starkphone down on the counter with a soft tap. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and the only sound was the crashing of the tide down below the deck.

Darcy knew that he sometimes tried to tread lightly, that they were still new enough that he wasn't always sure how she'd react to an action, or how she'd _react_ to him _reacting_.

She was glad this wasn't one of those times. Just as her knees started to shake, he swooped her up into his arms and pulled her close, holding her up against him.

For a long time, they stood like that, the surf roaring in the background, Darcy breathing into his neck and shoulder, his arms tightening around her.

It momentarily banished the unsettled feeling in her body.

Finally, she gently pulled back from him, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. "Thank you. Let's go for a walk, hm?"

((()))

They went walking again, into town, and she spent way too much money on frivolities, a pretty skirt, a wrap, a camisole. An expensive pair of sunglasses and she laughed when she realized they were his exact pair. A bottle of perfume that smelled of lilies and coconut that he teasingly mentioned he'd like to lick off of her.

A long, delicate chain with a tiny charm at the end, a shell carved from lava rock that she admired, finally drifting off when it became apparent that the shop owner wasn't around.

Bucky said not a word about her tense conversation that morning. But his hand was there, just as it always was, supportive, at the small of her back.

There was a small mini market at the end of the street, and she ducked in for a six pack of Corona to replace what they'd drank, and a small net of limes.

They walked back, taking their time, hand in hand, as the sun went down, casting everything in a tropical glow, and she was glad to note that with their serum enhancement, they weren't sunburned, but a nice, shimmering tan. Although, Bucky would have a tan line around his shoulders and the sleeves of his tank.

"Thank you," she said as they crested the hill that led to the private drive of the beach house.

"For what?" He reached up and slid his sunglasses back onto the top of his head, the very last of the glow turning his blue eyes turquoise.

"For just being you." She shrugged, looking down at their joined hands. He'd made remarkable strides in the last few months; he barely even noticed when someone commented on his unique arm and he didn't even hesitate upon going outside without a sleeve on anymore. As it was, not many people were brave enough or so lacking in tact as to ask after it. Most people did a double take if they noticed it at all, before staring up at him, blinking back down at the arm, then around, as if to spot further evidence. One man, an older gentleman they'd come across once, strolling around Manhattan one night just a few weeks ago, had taken a long look at him when Bucky's back had been turned, glanced at Darcy, nodded, and tapped him on the opposite wrist. When he'd turned, the old man had given him a casual little salute.

"Thank you," he'd said.

Bucky had blinked. "Sir?"

Darcy, having a feeling she knew what was coming, tried not to stare at the man's Vietnam cap, and she'd wondered if Bucky's eagle eyes had missed it.

But the old man was unperturbed. "It's been a long time and with the way the world is today, it's nice to see the young ones are still serving." He'd gestured to the arm. "Impressive, that one you've got there. Far sight better than the one my best buddy's got."

Still blinking, stunned, Bucky only nodded, looking a little confused.

"Anyhow," the old man had continued as he'd hobbled off on his cane. "Nice to spot a fellow soldier once in a while. So, thanks."

And just like that, he was gone.

Bucky had spent the rest of the night in a state of sobriety at the whole thing and when Darcy was finally brave enough to bring it up, he'd just shrugged and said, "That would be me. I'd be an old man." He'd shaken his head. "Or, rather…I'd match how I feel…"

But now, now, in the bright sunset, he was young and vibrant and alive, and laughing, something he still, even after all this time, seemed to only do so much of around anyone but her. "I didn't do anything other than be myself," he teased. "Did you want me to pretend to be Steve for a little while, or…"

They'd made it up the private drive now, and she pulled out her key and unlocked the door. "No, I know. It's just…supporting me is such a natural instinct with you, that I think you don't even realize you're doing it, or just what you're doing, really. But…you can always tell when I need to talk and when I need my space. And you let me come to you. And I couldn't be more appreciative of that. You never push more than you think I need. And I hope you know what that means to me. That's all." She shut the door behind them and flicked the lock again.

He shrugged. "Isn't that what this whole thing is about?"

She studied the ocean view. "Yeah, but…I don't think a lot of people get that anymore, and certainly not most men. You…took the time to…understand me. Studied me. I've…never met a guy that did that. And…I really must've hit the payback for what I grew up with, because between Steve and Boss Man, and you, I…I've got a lotta great guys lookin' out for me."

The corner of his mouth curled. "Well. I hope you don't think lookin' out for you is _all_ I'm doing…"

She laughed, stepping in toward him and got up on tip toe to press a kiss to his mouth. "Never in a million years."

He sighed, pulling gently back to set the beer and the limes on the counter. "We should eat. What do you want?"

She chased him. "I don't want food."

They shared a long look.

"I don't want food," she repeated, reaching up to pull his sunglasses from his hair and set them on the counter.

They met in the middle, drawing together in a long, earth-shattering kiss. She sighed, arching her neck to give him access to her throat, tugging his tank up his chest.

But it was unhurried, and he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the master suite, shucking them of their clothing slowly, methodically, completely unrushed.

They knew each other by heart now, and she shifted for him and he eased into her in one long thrust, not needing to communicate with anything other than sighs and the odd caress, soft here, tight there.

Her mind drifted as they roamed through their lovemaking, recalled to those first few nights together, when he'd been careful and soft, slow and sweet, brimming with that newfound passion of lovers but holding back with everything he had for fear of hurting her, the odd burst of it seeping through here or there. She'd lapped up every little taste he'd given her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, pressing a nuzzle against her jaw, drawing her back to herself.

She admired the low light playing across the plains of his broad back, his silvery scars lit up, as though to show off. "Fine. Just thinking." She ran her hands up his back, curling her hips against him, and he adjusted, reaching for that spot. "Nothing bad. Don't worry." She smiled when he eased back to look into her face. "Nothing bad." Her thoughts drifted further as he rolled his hips, and she arched her back. "Ah. There. Found it." Her nails dug in and she let her head fall back.

"Always do," he murmured, but there was no confident inflection; only a statement of faith.

"Mm," she agreed, curling her hips again and pressing against him, bucking softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful quality of it, lacking in all lustful hurry. "I love you," she whispered.

In answer, he curled his hand around hers and pressed a gentle line of tender little kisses up her throat, over her jaw and finally ended on her mouth, his tongue tracing the line of her teeth.

She didn't try to hold back; neither did he. In an unspoken agreement, they let the natural slope take control, and they happened to arrive together, his gasp and her whimper only accompanied by the sudden stillness of them.

It took a long time to fade; where usually they spent a long time talking and laughing in the dark, they were quiet tonight, curling up together in the center of the bed, the crashing of the tide through the open windows taking the conversation instead.

She drifted off like she used to, before the change.

((()))

But, of course, she hadn't been naïve enough to expect it to last, and sure enough, it didn't. She woke not long after, perhaps two hours, maybe three. The room still looked the same, dark and dim, the glow of the moon casting blue shadows across the carpet and furniture. The light from the next private house over was a small spot in the distance, casting a glow over the low rock walls between them.

Bucky was asleep beside her, on his stomach, his arm tenderly around her waist.

Her belly tingled.

She reflexively sucked in a breath, closing her eyes again and trying to focus on the feel of him beside her and push it off, the way he'd suggested she try not long ago. "Not now, not now," she murmured, to whom, she wasn't sure. "Please not now, not now."

But whoever it was wasn't listening. The tingling spread, first in a burst that lit up her heart and sent it pounding, then along her arms and down her legs, the ice ratcheting up until it was a burning cold, then an awful, unbearable ache. The entire process took a ridiculous five minutes, barely enough time for her to even catch her breath.

Her hand landed on his waist. "Jamie," she whispered, hating herself for disturbing his hard-won slumber. He looked so peaceful and gorgeous. " _Jamie_ …"

He shifted beside her, his arm tightening.

She bit her lip as a fresh wave seized her and the pain spiked. She pressed her hand harder, struggling to increase her voice. " _Jamie_ …" It came out a pathetic whimper.

But it worked. He shifted again, groggy, clearly in the middle of a REM cycle. "Wha'sswrong, baby…?" he slurred a little, his voice soft in the dark.

All she could manage was a whimper as she struggled not to writhe around. "Mm…I don't…feel so good…"

He came instantly awake, sitting up and turning to flick on the light—

"No!" she begged. "No, no light, please, not the light!" She winced at the brightness before he snapped it back off again.

"I'm sorry…"

She curled in on herself, clenching her jaw shut. "Oh, God…oh, God, this is worse," she moaned.

Instead of fumbling, he lifted her into his lap and gathered her hair back off her neck, snatching up a twist from the bedside table and securing it in a neat knot at the back of her head. "Worse?"

She nodded, curling, trying to make her small form even more compact even though she had nowhere to go. She slithered off his lap and back down to the bed, unable to hold still. "Oh, _fuck_ ," she groaned, unable to recognize the hard agony in her own voice. "Oh, God, Jamie…" The tears pushed up and out, streaming down her face and into her hairline.

He was calm, bless him. "What can I do? Can I do anything?"

"Just don't go," she wept, pleading with him in the dark.

"Not in a million years, baby. I'm right here. Hold my hand," he murmured, offering his metal one and gathering the blankets up around her with his other.

She shook her head. "I don't wanna hurt you. Don't touch my hands." She curled them into little fists as the burning increased, and all she could think of was Tony's burn, all those weeks and weeks ago.

"You're not gonna hurt me, baby. C'mere."

She gasped and a sob escaped. "Oh, God, it hurts, it _hurts_ ," she chanted.

Bucky winced, scowling. "I know, sweetie, I know."

"It's never been this bad before." She jerked away. "I don't wanna hurt you." It came out all agonized sobbing this time, but she couldn't stop it, found nothing to grip but his metal hand.

"You won't, baby."

She clutched him.

And he let her, wrapping his arms around her and propping them back in his pillow, rocking her gently and speaking to her, his voice low and soft. "Hold on. Just hold on tight. Don't try and fight it."

Somewhere, in some distant back corner of her mind, she felt silly, crying like a child, but the sobs slipped out of her, beyond her control but for her adult ability to keep them from sounding like a wracking mess. The pain was just so unbearable, claws ripping at her insides, tearing at her skin, her body one gigantic throb. She wept against his shoulder, tears streaming down her face and soaking his scars, and he didn't try to keep up with them; he just let her to it.

"Don't fight it, baby. Just ride it out, okay? Ride it out. Let it have its way."

She gasped, then hiccupped, curling her body into him, as though she could climb under his skin and hide there, where the pain couldn't find her.

"It's worse if you fight it, baby. Just let it through. Ride it out."

She gasped out another sob all made of anger and frustration. "Fuck my life."

He pressed the heel of his palm against her back, the space between her shoulder blades, and she knew he was keeping count of her heart rate. "We're gonna get through this; we _will_. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but we will. We'll find our way out the other side, okay, baby? You gotta be strong for me."

She bit her lip so hard she was surprised she didn't taste blood. "I can't. I _can't_ , _I can't_."

"Yes, you _can_. I need you to be strong for me, now, okay? You've gotta be strong for me. Dig deep."

The pain ratcheted up further, the throbbing turning into a burning, and fresh tears rose in a wave and slipped down her cheeks.

"Breathe, baby."

She barely heard him, mired in a radiated cloud of heat.

" _Darcy_." This time, his voice brooked no argument, what she jokingly called his Winter Soldier voice, deep and lacking in all soft inflection. " _Breathe_ , Darcy."

She sucked in a breath.

And his voice softened again. "That's it. Inhale." He paused. "Exhale."

She somehow managed to follow his instructions.

"Focus on my voice. Inhale. Exhale. Good. You're doing great, sweetheart."

She eased her death grip on him, somehow, though she wasn't sure just what route she took, the only things in her conscious mind being the pain, his arms and his voice, echoing against the inside of her skull, soft, like worn sandpaper against the pressure in her head.

"Inhale. Exhale. Good. Inhale. Exhale." His hand began trailing up and down her back, running softly along her spine, up her _vertebra prominens_ and back down again, increasing in pressure, as though to draw her attention to it gradually. "Inhale. Exhale. That's it. Just breathe. Inhale. Exhale."

Slowly, the pain eased, little by little, until it was a dull, throbbing pulse in her chest again, her heart slipping back into its normal rhythm.

She sniffled, weak and wrung out and unable to move.

He cupped her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, clucking his tongue at her swollen face.

"You don't shy away when there's a crying girl around," she joked softly, her voice rough.

It was always like this after an episode, a gradual return to their usual banter, and Darcy felt ashamed for falling apart so thoroughly and leaving him holding the bag.

He smiled. "Actually, I always thought a crying woman was a pretty thing."

She gaped at him.

He shrugged. "Call me crazy."

"You're crazy," she murmured, taking his suggestion.

He laughed softly. "All you women, you're amazing. Us, men, we…we're so wrapped up in our own egos, a lot of us are slaves to our libido or the comfort of our own masculinity, we walk around and pretend we don't care. But you…you're all so unafraid to feel so much— _too_ much—and all at once. And you're so stunningly unapologetic about it. You amaze me, repeatedly."

She had a hard time meeting his gaze. "You've always been good about sharing your feelings. Steve, too."

He shrugged. "I'm from a different time. What about Tony? Clint?"

She nodded. "I guess you're right." She edged away and turned over onto her side, facing away from him and readjusting the blankets around her chest, covering up.

But his voice came again, quiet in the dark. "My Darcy wouldn't shy away, though."

She swallowed, her throat raw. "What if it turns out you don't know who she's turning into?"

He snorted. "Oh, _please_ —even if that were true, you love two of _me_. I can't love two of _you_?"

She was silent.

His arm came around her, softly, around her middle and his palm settled—deliberately, she knew—over her scarred belly. "Hey. Don't shut me out now, not when you're at your most vulnerable. This is when we're at our best. This is when you need me the most."

"Made it a whole fucking week," she murmured.

He made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Yeah—a whole week! Darce! That's _awesome_."

She was silent.

"Don't let it ruin this, baby."

Still, she was silent.

"Darce." His voice softened further. "Would you look at me?"

She turned over reluctantly.

He took up her hands, studying them. "I know…that this is hard. And I know it's even worse because we don't really know what's coming and you feel like a freak because you don't understand what's happening to you." He sighed. "But you're not alone."

She looked away.

But he kept on. "You worry so much about adding to the worry that you forget—I've been there, done that. I didn't know what was happening to me, baby, I didn't know what they were making me into. It was just me, and the pain. And the delirium, and the starvation, and the misery, it felt like it would _never_ _end_."

She sighed, finally looking up into his face.

"I know it sounds cheap now. But we're gonna get through this. Okay? We _will_. I promise. I _promise_ you, there will come a day when this will end. We will come out the other side."

And he sounded so honest and earnest that she let him curl her up in his arms and fell asleep.

((()))

With a calm, gentle smile, Bucky handed her the coffee mug over her shoulder. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice low and subdued.

His only reply was to smooth his hands down her shoulders, setting a gentle squeeze around the silk sleeves of her robe, and he pressed a kiss to her cheek, nuzzling along her ear as he left her on the deck. The screen door slid shut behind him.

She chewed on her lip as she stared down at her Starkphone in her hand, her stomach rolling. With shaking fingers, she hit the speed dial she'd attached to the third slot—after Bucky and Steve, of course—and set it to her ear.

He answered on the second ring. "Strawberry Shortcake!" he crooned. "Talk to me, Sweet Cheeks."

The vice around her heart eased just a fraction and her throat tightened. "Hey, Tony."

Short pause. "What's wrong?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm totally transparent to you and Jamie, huh?"

"Pretty much."

A lump in her throat, she sat there, unable to go forward, staring down into the surface of her coffee. Her stomach was churning.

"Come on, babe. Don't leave me hangin', here."

"Just wanted to call you back. Miss you, too. I got your voicemail, but yesterday sort of got off on the wrong foot." Understatement of the decade. "How…how are things?"

He didn't bother asking about the first part of her confession. "Episode was worse this time, huh?"

The lump tightened and tears flooded her eyes. Her stomach threatened to revolt, and she set the mug on the deck at the side of her lounge chair. But she couldn't push any words out.

"Where's Buck?"

She chewed on her lower lip. "He's inside." She glanced over her shoulder and found him exiting the hallway into the living area, pulling a t-shirt on over his muscled chest. "I knew he had a sixth sense, but…I'm starting to think he's got seven or eight."

Tony let out a tense snort. "Why's that?"

She shrugged, watching him as he moved around the living room, retrieving his book from the counter and folding himself into one corner of the couch, flicking open his copy of _Return of the King_. "He…knows what I need better than I do. He…knows when I need him and when I need a little space. It's…"

"Comforting?" he offered.

The lump tightened further.

"That's not an extra sense, kiddo, that's just a sign you picked the right guy. He's intuitive, the Buckster."

For a few moments, there was heavy silence and Darcy squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on not crying and not yacking.

"I don't need to ask to know he's taking ridiculously good care of you, but…you okay, Darce?"

"…Took everything out of me this time. He had to carry me out here to the deck." Her voice wobbled threateningly and she swallowed, sniffling.

He was quiet for a long moment, and she was wondering which Tony she'd get when he finally spoke: off-the-cuff, flippant, all-shields-up Tony, or Daddy Tony, the one that insisted on taking care of her last winter, when no one else seemed capable. "I'm sorry, kiddo," he finally murmured, his voice surprisingly tender.

The appearance of Daddy Tony snapped the last of her self control and she didn't fight it, tears beginning to stream anew down her face. She sniffled again, tilting her head tiredly back against the deck chair. "God, it was bad this time. I was sobbing like a little toddler." She sniffled again, rolling her eyes at the thickness in her voice.

"It's getting progressively worse, then," Tony said, as though he was making a note to give to Bruce as soon as they hung up.

"Jamie keeps saying it'll get better."

Tony sighed. "Well. He's already done all this, so he outta know. Might not seem like it now, but there's light at the end of the tunnel. He'll pull you through."

The fact that Tony obviously had at least as much faith in Bucky as she did only raised more tears. "What if he's wrong? What if I'm not like him and Steve at all? What if I'm something else, something new? What if it doesn't get better? What if I'm like this for the rest of my life, Tony?"

"Then we'll take care of you until we can figure something out—just like we've been doing." So matter-of-fact, so no-nonsense, like it was just another fact of life, like 'the sky is blue' and that dogs always had to turn in at least two circles before laying down.

She huffed out a ragged, frustrated sigh. "He can't keep doing this for the rest of his life, Tony. You can't either."

"Why not?" he shot back, totally casual.

She scoffed. "Oh, _please_. He didn't sign up for this. He didn't marry me so he could babysit me all day long—and I can't ask him to—"

"Mmm…" Tony hummed in thought, cutting her off. "Pretty sure you didn't ask him to do that." He paused. "Yeah, no. I was there. Nowhere in those vows is there a line about babysitting."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, Tony. And if you're gonna start going on about 'in sickness and in health' you can just save it, Stark. I won't put him in a position—"

"He's not in any position, Short Stack. You're seriously over thinking this."

Annoyed, she snapped her mouth shut, the heartburn flaring in her belly.

"We're gonna figure this out. We're the _Avengers_ , kid—we don't let something like _this_ take us out. You're one of us. We never leave a man stranded. You're tough, _dollface_. You'll get through this—by _letting_ him take care of you."

She sighed sharply, glaring at the incoming tide below deck.

And then Tony said something so very un-Tony-ish that it caught her completely off-guard. "You and Romanov get along so well because you're strangely alike, even though you display it in totally opposite ways. Don't make the mistake I made. I can't get those early years back, Darce. Take down those walls. You've gotta let at least _one_ person in."

She frowned, opening her mouth to argue. "But, I—"

"You didn't really _let him in_ , kiddo. You came along when he needed someone and he desperately flung the door wide for you. But you made him _work_ for it. There's nothing wrong with that, makes a relationship strong when you've done the work. But you didn't let him in so much as he used his assassin's cover to steal his way in, in the night, when you weren't looking. He burrowed beneath your defenses and took you out before you even knew what had happened. You _let him stay_."

Stunned, she blinked at the roiling ocean. She'd always had the impression their relationship had happened in those terms, of course, only in reverse. _She'd_ stolen in. _He'd_ let her stay. Not the other way around…

Right?

"He wouldn't have stuck around if he didn't want to. Guys don't do that. He wouldn't have put all that care into you if he didn't _love_ you. There's nothing wrong with letting him in. There's nothing wrong with being vulnerable. It took me a long time to figure that out. He _wants_ to be there. So _let_ him _be there_."

She was still blinking, too surprised to speak, shocked at the poignant, damnably on the nose paragraph he'd just plied her with. "I—"

Something clanked in the background and Tony cursed. "Ooh! Gotta go, Short Stack. Something's gonna blow up."  
She rolled her eyes. "Tony! Don't—"

The phone beeped, disconnecting.

She sighed, lowering it to her lap and hitting the 'End' button.

A hand appeared, and Bucky shook a bottle, offering it to her out of thin air. She jumped, looking up at him. "What's this?"

He shook it again in offering, frowning. "Take one. I can practically read the heartburn on your face."

She took the offered bottle, but didn't move to open it. "Why? What is it?"

"An antacid. You're a sickly gray color. I know what that means. Take one before you hurl." His face and tone brooked no argument.

Sighing, she flicked open the bottle and popped one in her mouth, chewing. "Ugh. Chalk."

"You'll feel better."

She swallowed it back, trying not to gag. "I'm starting to think you're psychic."

He gave a gentle laugh and sat down, facing her, on the next chair. "Nope. Just pay attention."

She flinched, barely able to meet his gaze after Tony's therapy session. Bloody Hell, was she really that much of a stranger to herself? Was everyone around her able to so easily decipher her even when she couldn't do it _herself_?! "And was that a talent that HYDRA exploited or was it something they programmed you with?"

He snorted out another laugh. "Nah. That was already there. Ask Stevie."

She nestled into the chair, her stomach fizzing at its newest introduction. "So you were always a worrier?"

He sprawled out on the chair, sighing. "Oh, God, yeah. Somebody had to make sure the punk didn't get himself killed in the back alleys of Brooklyn."

She smiled, looking down at her hands in her lap. "Thank you."

His voice was low and even. "For what?"

She shrugged, unable to look up at him. "Keeping me all in one piece."

A little laugh. "Well. You'd hardly be any fun if you were all scattered around."

"I'm serious." She looked up at him, then, straight into his pretty blue eyes. "Thank you."

Sobered by her serious demeanor, he only nodded. "How could I do anything else?" he murmured.

She shrugged. "Still…"

"I'm sorry that I can't…fix it." He swallowed, hard. "I want to fix it, for you, I want to put it to right, but I…I can't."

"That's not your fault. Nothing that's happened in the past sixty years is your fault, remember?"

He shrugged, the tips of his ears going a tiny bit pink. "Still. It bothers me. Where I come from, this isn't supposed to happen, and watching you suffer is a physical pain."

She opened her mouth—

"And that's nothing for you to apologize for." He gave her another wry look. "That's just…the inherent nature of…this… _thing_ between us. There's nothing you can do about it. I just…haven't felt anything like it in so long…I think it feels worse for my desensitization." His eyes softened. "I'd forgotten what pain—this kind of pain, anyway—felt like. I'd forgotten how awful it could be, needing someone to be… _there_ …so badly. On top of that, I've never…been in love before. And I wasn't prepared for how much it would hurt."

"You were never in love with any of your girls?"

He smirked. "There weren't that many. Jesus, Lewis." He began kneading at her hands.

God, the _calluses_ , and she bit her lip.

"No. I wasn't in love with any of them. When it finally occurred to me to attach the word to you, it took me a long time to come to terms with it. I didn't want to put it out there too soon, or put you in danger." He smiled down at their hands. "I didn't even know what I was feeling at first. I just knew I _needed_ you, it was _visceral_ , and I wanted to make sure I wasn't projecting my… _healing_ …onto you, that I was only attached to you because of that. And I looked at you one day and the word just jumped out at me, and slapped me across the face."

She smiled. "I thought I saw something in your eyes once or twice. Not that I really knew what to look for. But you're good at wearing masks."

He winked. "You've never…been in love?"

She thought about it, breathing deep as she studied the misty high tide. "I _loved_. I was never _in_ love." She looked back into his face, so young and so old at the same time. "Does that make sense?"

He nodded.

She smiled. "I just knew I wanted to jump your bones for the rest of my life. That was the first thing that occurred to me."

He rolled his eyes as she started giggling.

"I'm _joking_!"

"That explains why you never got tired of listening to me whine for months on end," he muttered, a smirk curling his mouth.

She snorted. "It helped that you were exceedingly pretty."

He actually, genuinely, blushed. "Oh, is _that_ why you stuck around?"

"Actually, I stuck around because I was pretty sure, right away, that you were it for me, and I wanted to make sure you were gonna be okay, whether you loved me back or not." She thought again of Tony's words. Had she really gone all this time with him with her shields up so high? And here, she'd thought their springtime trials had cleared out the rest of the remodeling debris in her heart.

The laugh died in his throat and he stared at her.

She nibbled on her lower lip. "That day you cornered me in the lab?"

He nodded.

"And you charged in and you kissed me—I mean, you really _laid_ one on me—and then you apologized for sneaking up and you charged right back out again?"

He nodded.

She swallowed. "I was pretty sure I was done for. Whether you wanted me or not, whether you were _capable_ of wanting me or not. I was done. I was lost, I was yours. It was too late. I…needed you to…be okay. Your happiness was more important."

"Your… _safety_ was more important," he replied. "I…just…needed you. To _function_."

"I think that's a good thing. Right?"

He laughed gently, reaching across the distance between them for her hands. "No idea. Rosen would say our relationship is codependent in nature, and that's apparently _not_ a good thing at all."

She looked at him. "It's not?"

He shrugged. "Don't really give a shit, to be honest. I've survived a lot worse. If caring about you too much takes me out, then I'll go a happy man."

She laughed, studying their hands, entwined, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her palm.

"How's your stomach?"

"Better. I'm kind of hungry, actually."

He stood, tugging on her. "Good. Come on. I'll make you an omelet."


	3. Chapter 3: Changes

**Summary:** **In which our characters have an anti-honeymoon.**

 **Notes:** **Wow, guys. Okay, so this one is seriously giving me some trouble. Like, hard. Really stubborn, but I think I've FINALLY found my stride. Hopefully. Fingers crossed. So, here's the next chapter. I'll admit, this one is pretty fluffy and mostly setting up for what's coming down the road, so it's a little shorter than my gargantuan chapters of the past.** **Also, I've decided to make this work a bit of a story told in flashbacks. You'll see why pretty soon. So just a warning, you guys might not see them coming right away, but you'll soon understand why I've set it up this way. Kind of curious what you guys might mistake for reality and vice-versa, so that'll be interesting. It'll all make sense later. I don't think there are any in this chapter, but I felt the need to forewarn that they're coming, but I won't be making it immediately clear what's a flashback and what's not, just to keep things fun. The theme of this work just seemed to gel with the concept of seeing how we got to Date Night Dash, The BackUp, some of the early stuff that I started with and how these characters became established for the purposes of my early story fun. But more on that later. For now, a little fluff.** **Let me know what you guys think. I love hearing from you guys. I really, truly do. I sincerely apologize for the delays in replies. When I'm really in my groove (or having trouble finding it) I tend to get behind on things like that. I do see every comment and I adore you all for them, they seriously help and I feel like my writing is validated, which is really all I can ask for. I'm glad you guys are enjoying the wibbly stuff coming out of my brain, especially on the characterizations I'm trying to keep up with here. I often worry that my characters aren't in canon.** **Wow, I'm more long-winded than I thought. I'll shut up now. Love you all!** **Note: Chapter title taken from the great David Bowie. It'll make sense later.**

 **(See the end of the chapter for** **more notes** **.)**

((()))

 **Chapter 3: Changes**

It took a grand total of _two days_ before Darcy felt more like herself again. Slowly, the fatigue cleared and her discomfort eased.

But the restful calm of their trip had been irrevocably shattered.

Bucky was as attentive as ever, and even though Darcy loved the security blanket, she wished he didn't feel like he had to dote. What made it worse, of course, was the fact that he didn't see it that way at all.

She'd married a man from a completely different era; that meant completely different values and morals, in any other number of areas of life.

Where he came from, it was expected that the man take care of the woman.

He was, of course, thoroughly open-minded and modernized, and he knew when she would want to skip all that. But the instinct was there, deep in him, and it wasn't like that could be erased.

They hung close to the beach house that day, and she lazed around on the deck for most of it, reading. Bucky went for a swim in the early morning light, Darcy waking to a note from him in his neat scrawl and she enjoyed her coffee on the deck, watching his powerful body propel him back and forth in the water, getting in a good workout. His metal arm glinted in the light of the rising sun and he moved fluidly, leonine and…perfect. She told herself—out loud—to get it together as she stared at his distant form. She struggled not to let her mouth hang open as he came up the beach to meet her, smiling when he saw her, his shaggy hair dripping over his shoulders. He caught her in his towel, drew her near, and, laughing, kissed her, his mouth warm and sharp from the salt.

She'd have hauled him down to the wood slats of the deck, had she thought he'd let her get away with it. She nearly tried it anyway.

He went into town for a few things, and returned soon after to join her.

The next day, they went into the market again, the air between them tense, as Bucky wasn't sure she was up for it yet. Darcy, though, was determined, and stubborn, and she got her way, even though, halfway through, she had to admit—only to herself, though—that he was right. She _wasn't_ up for it yet.

Whatever was causing her episodes, whatever it was that triggered them, and whatever it was that was making them worse each and every time, her body was _ravaged_. Her heart routinely reeled, and she knew she was powerless to keep it from him, not when he constantly had a hand at her back and could probably hear the traumatized, rapidly racing muscle every time it decided to run a 50 yard dash.

The walk back to the house sapped her already weakened stamina, but he said nothing. She made it as far as the front walk before he finally looped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his side.

"Go ahead," she said, a little breathless.

"What?" He unlocked the door and maneuvered their odd shape through the doorway.

She took a deep, shaky breath and pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum. "Go on and say 'I told you so'. I know it's teetering on the tip of your tongue." She rolled her eyes.

But he only sighed, twisting to lift her easily into his arms, chewing on his lip as he settled her on the couch. "Don't want to." He pressed a kiss to her temple and left her there to close the door behind them.

She slid off her sandals and settled back into the cushions. "Oh, sure you do. You're thinking it, there, Winter Soldier. I can read your face too, you know."

He smirked as he toed off his Nikes, tossing his baseball cap on the kitchen counter. "Darcy. In no way does your suffering make me petty or vindictive."

She flopped back, boneless. "Uh-oh. The full name. Am I in trouble?"

He smirked, shaking his head as he opened the fridge and started rooting around for something to make.

"Don't suppose I could get some TLC over here, by any chance…?"

He set something on the counter and went to work, his broad back to her. "And would that TLC you have in mind be _sans clothes_?"

"Is there any other kind?"

He snorted. "Then, no."

She rolled her eyes, sighing like a petulant teenager. "Ugh. You're no fun."

He shrugged. "Sorry, babe. You being weak and vulnerable doesn't really turn me on. In fact, with my checkered past, it pretty soundly turns me _off_. That's a no-go area."

She sighed. "Well, if you're not gonna have your way with me, could you at least grab me my book?"

((()))

The uneasy feeling in Darcy's gut refused to evaporate. The whole beach house felt unsettled and crooked now, as though the very supports were shifting beneath them.

Bucky was sweet and tender with her and put her to bed early, reading in the corner of the bedroom by the moonlight until it was late, and he joined her, easing in beside her sleeping form.

She stirred. "Jamie?"

He fit her body along the shape of his and slid his arm around her middle, twining their hands together. "Just me. Go back to sleep."

She settled in, her brain straddling the line between fuzzy and content and half awake confusion. "Where were you?"

His breath was warm against the back of her neck and she sagged into the pillow, melting against him. "Eight feet to your left. I've been right here the whole time."

She snuffled into the pillow. "You sit sentinel too often. You should've joined me earlier."

A puff of air against her neck where he laughed. "Just sleep, Lewis."

She grumbled. "Hmph. _Lewis_. I'm _ditching_ Lewis soon as we get home…"

She was out again before she heard his reply.

But she jerked awake—fully aware—not long after.

Bucky was asleep beside her, on his stomach, as usual, both hands hidden beneath his pillow and his soft hair obscuring part of his face.

Watching him sleep always eased her discomfort; perhaps only because the sight of such a ravaged person as her Jaime in peaceful slumber should've made her content and comforted.

But this time it didn't; the stinging in her gut propelled her from the bed and down the hall into the living room. She pulled on her silk robe and stood in front of the huge picture window and watched the low tide roll in, the gentle waves crashing on shore, and tried to find her center.

She wished she could at least pinpoint the reason for her unease.

She was safe.

She was loved— _cherished_ , actually—and in a way that usually made her blush.

She had no work to get back to; nothing that couldn't wait or Tony couldn't handle in a crunch.

The world wasn't in danger of coming to a fiery end while they were gone.

So why did she feel such heavy dread in the pit of her stomach?

Maybe she should wake him. He wouldn't mind—he never did—and usually a long talk with him in the dark did the trick. Contrary to most guys she'd met—let alone had a relationship of any sort with—he was good at the heart-to-hearts. Probably another callback to his era, when people were more connected by words and ties than emails and texts. And he was so hands-on with her, in a way she still wasn't quite used to. Open. Warm. And a ridiculously good listener.

She sighed, turning from the window—

Just as a shadow on the beach caught her eye.

She paused, her eyes focusing.

A dark figure, just there, what seemed like it amounted to a handful of clicks—in Bucky speak—down from their position.

A man.

In a suit, well-tailored, she could tell, even from this distance.

The unease in her gut prickled and she paused, locked in place as she watched him.

He was staring out at the surf, perfectly still.

She stared. He seemed eerily familiar, and her gut gave a warning pang, like a sixth sense. Unsure why, it seemed important that she watch him, and she stepped closer to the glass, her eyes glued to him. What the fuck was he doing on their private beach? There was only one way in, after all, and one way out, and it wasn't as though the volcanic terrain around them was easily traversable, let alone _friendly_.

Then he turned away and began up the beach.

She gaped, her hands fumbling blindly to slide open the door to the deck. Not really sure what the hell she was doing, she went out and down the stairs to the sand, picking her way, barefoot, along the soft terrain toward his rapidly retreating form, mindlessly compelled.

As she moved, it seemed like he grew further and further away, the coat of his suit flapping slightly in the gentle breeze off the sea.

And it was actually surprisingly chilly out near the surf.

"Darcy?"

She spun, gasping, to find Bucky out on the deck, watching her with concerned, confused eyes. He was also much further away than she thought he should've been, and realized with a start that she'd gone much further than she thought, following her shadow like a drone.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?"

She blinked at him, confused.

"Come back inside, baby," he called, his hair blowing in the ocean breeze.

"I…" she began, her voice low, and she turned, dazed, to find their strange visitor—

Was gone.

She spun around, disoriented, her gut burning, now, harder, and she wasn't sure if it was the wind on the water she heard or the blood rushing furiously in her ears. "What…?" she murmured, turning again, staring down the beach. It continued for some distance, finally culminating in a dramatic cliff face.

So he couldn't have disappeared. There was no way.

She spun again, rapidly scanning the landscape. "There's…there's no…way. There's no way," she whispered to herself. Not unless he walked into the surf and drowned, for god's sake.

She spun again, her vision darkening, the rushing in her ears rising into a buzzing, an awful ringing, and she turned, searching, compelled to find him. She was suddenly sure she needed to follow him, her heart pounding.

"Darcy!" Bucky called again, behind her, his voice closer now, and she knew he'd followed her down to the sand. "Darcy, what's wrong?"

But she ignored him, turning, turning, turning, her head falling behind her body, the night clouds closing in around her vision—

Until it winked out entirely and she slithered down, her knees buckling.

Bucky broke into a run; she watched him from the dizzy slits in her eyelids, watching as he realized something wasn't quite right, and he darted to catch her before she hit the sand.

((()))

The next day was a haze of uncertainty. She woke up in the early, gray light of pre-dawn to find Bucky in the recliner, watching her with a worried frown.

Her head was pounding, and she groaned, curling into herself on the couch. " _Fuck_."

"You care to explain to me what _the fuck_ that was last night?!" he snapped.

She winced. "Okay, you're gonna start in right away, then," she muttered, turning over.

He stood, looming over her in a way that would've creeped her out if she hadn't known him backwards and forwards. "You're damn right I'm gonna start in right away! _Jesus Christ_ , Darcy! I wake up in the middle of the goddamn night and you've disappeared—what the fuck was that?!" His Brooklyn was showing, a pull in his words clearly apparent in his emphatic tirade.

She grimaced at the sheer sharpness of his voice. He didn't often lose his temper, but when he did, he really managed to make it count. "I—"

"And I find you wandering like a zombie down the beach—do you _know_ how many times I had to call to you before you heard me?!" He began pacing, rapidly, back and forth, gesturing.

"Zombie jokes. I think your pop culture education is nearing its end."

" _I'm not done_!" he snarled.

She flinched, unable to continue looking at him. He really knew how to use that voice of his.

"Six! _Six times_ , Darcy! Now, I _know_ you're not suffering from hearing loss, and I _know_ you're not a sleepwalker, since we've been sleeping together for the past _fucking_ year! So what the _bloody hell_ is going on?!"

She grimaced again. " _'Bloody hell'_? What are you— _British_?"

"And you pass out?! You've been acting weird this whole trip!" He dropped heavily down at her feet, tugging his hands roughly through his hair. "So, _please_. I'm _begging_ you to explain this to me, because you're scaring the hell out of me. I thought we were done with the weird, serum shit."

She tried to sit up, but gasped and fell back again, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't know."

"Well, you need to figure it out, then, because I'm _freaking_ out."

His hands were shaking and he was pale and hollow-eyed, like he'd been too terrified to go back to sleep and let her out of his sight after he'd brought her back inside.

He likely had.

She wanted to grab him and she wanted to fold him in her arms and tell him she was fine, and she wanted to explain the previous night.

But she couldn't do any of those things. She could barely move. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

He sighed roughly. "I don't want you to _apologize_. I just want you to explain what—"

"I can't.

His jaw snapped shut and he stared at her. " _'Can't'_ or _won't_?"

She took a deep, uneasy breath. "Can't. I can't explain it."

He sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees and pulling his hands through his hair again. "Darce, listen—"

"I can't explain it. I _want_ to. But I _can't_. I don't know what that was."

He gave her a long, helpless look.

She struggled to sit up again, grimacing at the pain bursting in her head. He folded her wrist in his big hand and tugged her up. "Thanks."

He sighed, his eyes softening. "I'm feeling a little lost in all this."

She combed her hair back out of her face. "All what?"

He gestured. "You."

She shrugged. "It's probably just the serum. There are probably lingering effects, right? You said that there's no way for us to know how this will be for me, right?" She could hear the betraying nerves in her own voice and wanted to curl up in a ball in his lap and pretend none of it had ever happened. They were supposed to be on a honeymoon. That meant sightseeing and shopping and laughing. Time spent sleeping in and getting drunk—or at least going through the motions. They were supposed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in bed— _not sleeping_.

She was exceedingly grateful that they were a strong unit and not one that turned out—in the long run—to be dependent on their physical chemistry. Much as it frustrated her, she at least didn't have to worry that the strain would kill what they had. She'd managed that at least, to have a successful, emotional connection with someone.

Imagine that it was the very last person she'd expected.

"I just…I woke up feeling… _weird_."

"'Weird' _how_?"

She shrugged. "Just unsettled. I've been feeling like that since we got here. Unbalanced. I don't know what it is. And I saw this…guy."

He frowned. " _Guy_? _What_ guy?"

Another desperate shrug. "A _guy_! I _dunno_. He was on the beach, just standing there, in a tailored three-piece—"

"Darcy, there was no guy. This is a privat—"

"Beach, yeah I _know_! And I just…I had to follow him." She knew it sounded lame, but there it was.

" _Follow_ him? Why?"

Yet another shrug. " _I don't know_ , Jamie! I just _did_! It was like a compulsion or something."

His face changed— _completely_. In fact, she couldn't recall ever seeing the color drain from his face so fast before. " _Compulsion_?" he murmured, his eyes boring into her.

She swallowed, biting her tongue and wishing she could take it back. Of course he'd latch onto that, damn it to Hell. Too late. "I dunno. Yeah. And I didn't realize how far I'd gone, and then you were there, and I just…I got dizzy and disoriented. I don't know."

"Dizzy and disoriented…" he repeated, frowning.

She nodded. She could see the wheels turning—and turning and turning—in his head.

He swallowed, meeting her eyes with a bracing look. "You're not… _late_ …are you?"

She snorted. "Haven't we already established that I'm impervious to the _Super Soldier Effect_?"

He rolled his eyes. "Stranger things have been known to happen—you're _looking_ at one."

She sighed, swallowing, and looked down at the blanket he'd draped over her at some point during the night. "I haven't…bled…for a long time now." Convenient. _Wonderful_ , in fact. And, yet, also strangely stripping of her pride, if it made any sense at all.

He flinched. "But, that could—"

"It's been _months_ , Jamie. That's why Bruce was running all those tests."

He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

She smirked. "I'm not pregnant."

He let out a deep breath. "You'll pardon me if I breathe a sigh of relief."

She snorted. "By all means, Barnes. I'm right there with you."

His hand slid over the blanket and folded around hers. "That doesn't solve our other problem."

She chuckled. " _Which one_? We have a whole handful."

He didn't let her get up from the couch much all day, only letting her move around when she whined that he was being ridiculous and that she really, _seriously_ , had to pee.

She couldn't help but feel the entire trip had been shattered. One measly week in, and the whole thing was a bust. And it was her fault because she couldn't shake the melodrama in her head. She felt guilty but when she tried to apologize or explain herself, Bucky waved his hand and told her to shut up.

And the sex was off the table— _again_.

She grumbled as he slid in beside her. "You're being overprotective again."

He sighed, turning over to face her, one arm bent under his head on the pillow. "Darcy. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't want to find out what I would do if something happened to you. Okay?"

She slumped against the headboard. "Oh, _sure_ —just _totally_ take the wind outta my sails! _Nice_ job, Barnes!" She flopped gracelessly over onto her side to face him. "I can't be angry about that."

He smiled. "It's only been a week, babe. Relax. We've got plenty of time."

He was out like a light ten minutes later and Darcy was left alone, wide awake. And the weird feeling was back, the restless one, like they were being _watched_.

She couldn't shake it, and it was creeping her out. She wasted an hour staring up at the ceiling and listening to the peaceful, even sound of his breathing before sliding out of bed again, rolling her eyes as she slid on her robe. "For fuck's sake." She stomped into the kitchen and glared at the ceiling. "What do you want from me?!"

An owl called out the window as if to answer and she jumped, shaking her head as she went over and stared out at the surf. "Great, Lewis, now you're talking to the wildlife."

Lewis.

God, she'd grown to _hate_ that name over the years.

 _Lewis_.

She scowled.

She'd spent so long running from it and running from what she'd left behind, that it had crystallized around her like a dull, crusted shroud, the Titanic after sitting for a century under water. She wished she could say that it had been so long that she'd forgotten why she'd run in the first place.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been true.

And she hadn't told a soul.

Until Bucky.

Whenever someone had asked her, a college friend, an acquaintance, a blind date, _Jane_ even, she'd gotten so good at acting flippant and silly, words flowing from her mouth in such rapid succession only Jane and her _Science_! talk had put her to shame, that people had stopped asking. And she'd wanted it that way. It was easier to just pretend it wasn't there, her cracked and misbegotten past, her mismatched family. It was easier to tell people that she'd come from a family of silly people just as carefree as she pretended to be. It was easier to tell them nothing at all and put them off. It was easier to let them shrug her off as ' _that crazy Darcy'_ than to see the look in their eyes when she told the story.

An asshole father.

A drug-addled mother.

And Darcy. Somewhere in the middle.

She'd run as soon as she could and she'd never looked back.

It felt so much longer ago than it really was.

She'd made it a year this time, since her father had called to badger her about the life he didn't _think_ she had.

If he only _knew_ …

A year since Jane had cocked her head, and Ian had frowned and pushed until she snapped, a year since Thor had very tactfully—for _Thor_ anyway—said that family was not always the family it should be, after all.

And no one had asked since. And that was okay. She'd gone years without talking about it, without telling anyone the truth. It was easier that way.

Until _Bucky_.

Bucky, who never pushed. Bucky, who never laughed or suggested, Bucky who never stepped where he somehow—some way, she still didn't understand how the _fuck_ he _always_ knew—understood he shouldn't. Bucky, who murmured that she had to stop comparing her hurts to his ridiculous, out of the this world plotline, had reminded her that just because they might not be what he'd gone through, her hurts were still large to her.

Bucky, who somehow always seemed to know just what to say.

Bucky, who let her come to him.

She'd curled up in his lap and told him small bits and pieces, the little nibbles she could work out without crying like the idiot she was. The little chunks she felt she could say out loud, if only to relieve the guilt she felt at marrying a man that seemed to be okay with her dishonesty.

And the worse guilt in the knowledge that he would wait her out, that he didn't view her inability to talk about it as dishonesty at all.

And thankfulness that he hadn't immediately suggested she go talk to one of the SHIELD shrinks.

 _Lewis_.

God, she _hated_ it. Why had she felt the need to hang onto it? It certainly held no sense of self for her, she certainly didn't need it to define who she was.

She hated _everything_ that name stood for.

It was long past time to shed it. Like a skin. Finish her metamorphosis, finally.

She owed him that much. For all his patience and care, his careful nurturing, she owed him that much, at least. Maybe Tony had a point. She'd held back from him, somehow, just a little, without even knowing she was doing it. More guilt crept over her, such a contrast when she really thought about it, compared to how very much he'd let her see all of him, and for what he really was.

And _Barnes_ had a nice ring to it, a good, solid feel to the weight of the word.

She should make a note in her phone to remind her to make a few calls in the morning. She turned to retrieve it from the counter—

And stopped. For a long moment, she stared out the window, past the glass and past the deck, the sand, the midnight dark—

At their visitor.

He was back.

And this time, he was staring up at the house, and—Darcy could _swear_ — _straight_ at her. A chill ran through her.

"Darce?"

She jumped, looking up as Bucky shuffled sleepily in, pausing in the living room. "Hm?" she squeaked.

He rubbed groggily at one eye with one hand and pulled the other through his soft, sleep-tousled hair. Clearly, she wasn't the only one to have become reliant on a body beside her in the bed. "You okay, sweetheart? What are you doing up?"

She glanced back up out the window, unsurprised to see the empty beach, bereft of everything but the ever churning waves. "Um…" she began, feeling foolish, but drifted off as her belly began its telltale sting. She pressed her palm to her gut, wincing. " _Fuck_ ," she bit out, leaning on the counter and squeezing her eyes shut, the sensation seeping through her at a more rapid speed than it ever had before. Just as it began to ease, another stab jolted through her, and she bent over slightly, pressing her hand to the damnable spot. "Oh, _Jesus_."

He didn't speak; he just crossed the room to her and swept her up into his arms again, carrying her back to the huge bed, that concentrating frown back on his now alert face.

"I thought honeymoons were for sunsets and romantic dinners and sex— _lots of sex_. Not… _this_ ," she ground out.

He sighed as he set her gently on the bed. "Well. We're not what most people would call _ordinary_ , so I guess we can't have an ordinary honeymoon, hm?"

"This is so _fucking_ ruined," she gasped out, curling in on herself in a shape that was becoming all too familiar, as far as she was concerned.

He curled himself around her, his hand running large, soothing circles along her back. "It's not ruined. Nothing is ruined. We're here and we're together and that's good enough."

She bit down on her lower lip, determined not to cry. "No, it's not."

He sat up, reaching for a hair band, and tied his shaggy hair back in a loose knot at the back of his head, most of it falling loose again around his face, some caught in the tiny pony. "You know, this isn't the end all-be all. We can take another trip, Darce." He curled up again and resumed his slow, methodical circles across her shoulder blades.

She gripped at his metal fingers and shook her head. "Won't be the same," she murmured.

"Sshhh…" he soothed. "It doesn't matter. It _feels_ important, but it's _not_."

Whimpering, but keeping the worst of it at bay, she curled into a smaller shape and set the crown of her head to his chest.

"It doesn't matter."

She drifted mercifully off sometime later, his voice murmuring low, sweet things to her in Russian.

((()))

By the time he finally got her back to sleep, it was dawn, the early light splashing in the windows in gray, watercolor streaks, and he was wide awake. Sighing, he palmed his Starkphone and hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "God damn it," he muttered. His finger hovering over the contact button on the screen, he looked down and studied Darcy again, all curled up against his front, head ducked and a frown tugging on her features.

Coming to a decision, he carefully pulled back from her slumbering form to slide off the bed, tapping the screen as he went, swiftly and silently out of the room.

It only rang once. " _Winds of Winter_ , how's it hanging?" Tony's bright voice trilled in his ear.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to make a _Game of Thrones_ reference," he muttered.

Stark snorted. "Staring me in the face. Almost called you the _Night's King_ , but thought that might be too obtuse. What can I do you for, _Buckeroo_? I'm working on this stupid drone, and it has yet to cooperate, so I'm all yours."

He narrowed his eyes at the pale light just edging over the shoreline. "You're one of those _morning_ people, aren't you?"

"Always have been." The sound of the socket wrench in the background paused in its clicking. "You're a grumpier grumpy cat than you usually are. What's up?" If he tried to hide the slightly sharp, nervous edge to his voice, he failed, but Bucky didn't bring that up.

He threw himself bodily into the suede couch and heaved a sigh. "They're getting worse, Tony."

Naturally, Tony didn't need any clarification. "Yeah. I gathered that."

He pulled a hand tiredly down his face. "I'm running out of options, here, Stark."

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a deep sigh. "…I know."

He swallowed thickly, watching the sun finally break the surface and begin its ascent. The thick line of gold broke in and began creeping stealthily across the carpet. "I can't keep doing this, Tony. I can't keep watching this. If it's getting worse, there's gotta be something we're doing wrong."

"Like what?"

He sighed heavily. "I don't _know_. But I was outta the woods by now, so she shouldn't still be languishing, and definitely not in so much _fucking_ pain. I can't…" He swallowed again, harder. "I _won't_ keep watching this." He cursed the catch in his throat.

Tony paused, making it clear he'd heard it and was giving him a moment. "Bruce has been burning himself out, studying her blood chemistry, trying to make sense of it, find a pattern."

" _And_?"

"There _might_ be something there, but its flimsy. He's not confident enough in it to take the next step."

He chewed on his lower lip. "They're totally debilitating at this point, Stark. She woke up last night and I found her, half asleep in the living room. Normally, so far, they come on slowly, but lately, they've been hitting her like a ton of bricks, and out of _nowhere_. I'm tearing my hair out. It's even starting to damage _my_ calm, and we both know what that means."

"Means we're in deep shit, yeah, I know." The socket wrench started clicking again; Stark could never sit still for long, especially in the face of turmoil. "He said her white blood cells are increasingly high. As far as he can tell, they drop drastically immediately after a surge—that's why she passes out so hard afterward and sleeps for hours. But…he isn't sure what it is that's setting off the chain reaction, so he can't do anything about it yet."

"Well, we've gotta think of something fast, because _she's_ miserable, _I'm_ a lying _asshole_ , and I don't wanna find out what happens when these things become constant, Tony. I _don't_." He heard the thin tininess of his own voice and worked to take a deep breath.

Tony was silent again, the only sounds in the room the crashing of the waves outside and the clicking tick-tick of his socket wrench through the phone. "…I shouldn't have been so pushy. I should've insisted you guys postpone this until she was feeling better."

He let his head tip back and he studied the ceiling. "Don't start doing _that_ , taking blame. She _hates_ that."

A low laugh. "Yeah. I know. Bitches about you once in a while."

"Yeah, I don't doubt it."

"She asleep?"

He let out a deep sigh, feeling his own exhaustion. "Finally got her down, yeah. So tired, she didn't even question what the hell I was saying to her in Russian."

" _Ooh_ …" Tony winced. The line muffled, and then there was another voice, another conversation. "…Yeah, it's Buck…Not so good, no…You _sure_? You look like you need another cup of coffee, I don't need you Hulkin' out in my lab, no offense. Oh, _yeah_ —offense? Well, sorry, not sorry." Some wilted laughter. "…Yeah, he's right here…"

He let his eyes slide shut, sinking deeper into the couch.

"…Yeah, he doesn't sound too good, himself. You know it's bad when the fucking _Winter Soldier_ 's falling apart…"

He rolled his eyes. "I can _hear_ you, you know…"

" _Totally_ aware, Grumpy Cat," Tony shot back before muffling the phone again.

He huffed.

"…If you're sure…Here…" Some fuzzy noises.

"Bucky?" Bruce's soft, gentle voice.

He hadn't been aware until that moment just how soothing the doctor was, ironically enough. "Hey, doc."

"How you holding up?"

He sighed again. "She's not so good."

There was a pause, then he spoke again, his voice even softer. "I didn't ask about _Darcy_. I already heard about Darcy. I asked about _you_."

He blinked. "Um…" It was infrequent that someone asked how a super soldier was; especially how _he_ was.

Bruce chuckled, but he sounded tired and strained. "This has got us all worried. Tony won't stop working, which is, you know, Stark language for—'I'm worried'. Steve stopped by to ask how it was going and was wearing a path in the floor."

He pulled a hand down his face.

"You're obviously losing sleep. I don't need to ask to hear how tired you are. You and Steve can go for quite a while without rest, but the mental stress will still take its toll, Buck."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, but couldn't speak.

"You're worried about her. I know. We _all_ are. And if _we_ are, then it's a miracle you're _not_ tearing your hair out. No one likes to see their significant other suffer. And Darcy's been through the ringer, just this past year alone. She's a tough girl, but we've gotta double down."

He took a deep shaky breath. "Tell me there's something I can do."

Bruce heaved a tired sigh. "Without knowing exactly what's setting it off, I can't begin to prescribe her something that will combat it. The best you can probably do is to head into town. The pharmacy should have pain patches. Now, Darcy is small, so make sure you follow those directions _to the letter_ , don't apply too many, no matter what she tells you. I know you're just as stubborn as she is," he instructed, wryly.

He smirked.

"Those last about a day or so. Watch the clock. She'll feel it wear off. Give it an hour or two and apply the next dose. That might— _might_ —stave off the worst of it. Hopefully it'll get you through the next few days, and I can…perform a miracle over here."

" _We've got enough technology in the damn tower, Bruce—we should at least be able to manufacture a false one. Might fool the man upstairs for a few minutes_ ," Tony called in the background.

He stood. "Pain patches. Right."

"Call me a little later, let me know how she's doing, okay?"

"You got it, doc."

"And _Bucky_."

He stopped at the hard tone of Bruce's voice. "…Yeah?"

"As soon as she's comfortable, I'm _ordering_ you to _sleep_. _No excuses. Got it_?"

He sighed. "Got it."

They parted ways and he set the phone on the coffee table and went about getting dressed. By the time he made it into town, it would be after eight and stores would be opening for business. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, slid his feet into his slip-on sneakers and turned back to Darcy.

She was still asleep and his photographic memory told him she hadn't moved an inch in the last half hour, since he'd gone to call home. She was still curled in a defensive little ball, a sad little shape that twisted his heart in his chest, her face pinched in discomfort.

He stood watching her for a long moment, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the shadow of her long, dark lashes on her cheeks. He hated to leave her, even if it was only for a little while. He bent over her. "Darce?" he called softly.

The crease between her brows clinched tighter and she curled in on herself.

He reached up to brush her dark, silky hair out of her face. " _Solnishka_ …"

"Mmm…" she murmured, shifting.

" _Lapochka_ …"

She unfurled, cracks appearing in her eyelids. "If you just called me your little rat, we're gonna have a serious problem," she groused, sleepy and husky-voiced.

He smiled, continuing to brush the loose hair from her brow. "Think you've got your Russian terms a little mixed up, there, honey."

She groaned drowsily. "Mm, the Russian is fine, but ' _honey'_ makes me sound like an ancient housewife."

The smile widened. "Dually noted. Is ' _baby'_ permissible?"

Groggy, she sat up, rubbing at her eyes. "Perfectly allowable."

But he pushed her gently back down again. "No, no, I want you to keep resting. I just didn't want to leave without telling you I was stepping out."

Murmuring sleepily, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't go."

He sighed, his heart tugging harder. He hated when she pleaded. She did it so rarely that he found himself powerless when she decided to use her powers for ill. "I _have_ to. For _you_."

She flopped back onto her back. "Where are you going?" She was already slurring her words again, her eyes drifting shut, sleep pulling hard on her.

"Just out to get something to help you feel better, okay, _dorogaya_?"

She sighed out a sleepy breath, turning onto her side to curl up again, her hands sliding beneath her pillow. "Mm…the Russian's really working for me."

He smiled as he straightened. "Well, in that case, somewhere up in my tangled head, there's some German and Romanian, too, you wanna hear it."

"Mmmm…" she hummed, already back to sleep.

He sighed and leaned over once more to brush her hair out of her face and press a kiss to her temple. " _Ya tebya lyublyu_." He stood and silently left the room. He paused at the counter, thinking of her grogginess and her need for coffee so strong in the mornings. Likely, she'd not remember their exchange. So he scribbled her a quick note, turned on the coffee maker, checked his wallet and grabbed the keys, locking the door behind him and heading down the long, private lane.

((()))

 **FYI** —

 _Solnishka_ : sunshine

 _Lapochka_ : sweetheart

 _Dorogaya_ : darling

 _Ya tebya lyublyu_ : 'I love you'


	4. Chapter 4: Right Behind You

**Chapter 4** **: Right Behind You**

 **Summary:** **More flashbacks. More angst. Natasha going into the lion's den.**

 **Notes:** **Alight, guys. I'm finally back. Feel like I finally got to a good place with this and it's just a matter of full steam ahead. I'm hoping to have this finished and rolled out before Thanksgiving, because I've got an idea for that well. As a fallback, I could switch up the idea for Christmas, but I'd like to do Thanksgiving. We'll see if that actually happens. Haha.** **Anyhoo. Here you go. Questions, comments, suggestions? Message me, comment, whatever you wanna do. Thank you to everyone who's reading and leaving kudos and comments.** **I LOVE YOU ALL. Seriously, like, I'd bow down to you all-if I didn't have a sleeping, cuddly dog beside me, sound asleep and snoring under a blanket right now...Let me know what you think.** **PS-Song title taken from James Durbin, one of the guys from a past season of American Idol. He dropped a surprisingly fantastic album after he was voted off. Go check it out.**

((()))

She came awake slowly, almost as though she was swimming up through a puddle of dark sludge. Frowning and stiff, she struggled to pull herself out of it and sit up, but finally she gave a hard tug of pure will and managed the task.

She blinked blearily in the sunny room and found the clock to discover it was after eight. But she was alone in the bed—and the space where he usually lay beside her was cool, clearly vacated some time ago. Scowling and shivering, she dragged herself up, every muscle in her body protesting as she struggled to stretch.

Coffee. She smelled coffee. Strong coffee.

He was a God. She'd married. A God.

"Jamie?" she called, groggily as she slid down to the polished wood floor, but received no answer. Everything was a muddy blur, streaked in shadow, miscellaneous half-thoughts tumbling messily around in her head.

She'd woken late, late into the night and felt that strange pull again. She'd stumbled restlessly out here, and stood…here. She looked around. Yes, here, she'd stood here, next to the counter, and…and why had she done that?

Another strange dream? Yeah, that must've been it.

And then…and then…

An episode? Had she dreamed that? She didn't remember how she'd gotten to bed, but of course, that must've been Jamie. Had he found her out here, curled up on the floor?

"Fuck…" she muttered to herself, shaking her head out like a dog. It was so fucking spotty. She remembered confusion, pain, panic, then…nothing. Nothing but darkness and…Russian.

He'd been speaking to her in Russian again.

He'd taken to doing that lately, murmuring to her in Russian to calm her. While usually, she was annoyed when she didn't understand something, with this, the cadence of his voice on the edge of her consciousness soothed her rapidly fraying nerves. Whatever terms of endearment they were, she found she didn't mind. She looked around and spied a small slip of paper, and crossed to it. ' _Ran into town for some things,_ said his neat script _. Won't be long. Made coffee'._ And a tiny little heart in blue ink.

She smiled. The tough Winter Soldier was sort of a _sap_.

She felt guilty again. He was looking less like his handsome self and more gaunt and deep-eyed, like his alter ego, empty-gazed and hollow. He was on the edge of insomnia most of the time, anyway, and now she was keeping him up at night with her crap.

She poured her coffee with a shaking hand and took a desperate sip, nearly burning her mouth in her haste. Rolling her eyes, she set the mug down with a hard clunk and threw herself tiredly down at the kitchen table, snatching up her Starkphone at the same time and swiping it unlocked.

 _Any change?_ read a text from Bruce.

She sighed and typed back to him, taking another sip of coffee. _Another episode. Faster onset than the last._

 _Any other strange side effects?_

 _No. Why?_

A pause. _Just…I've been comparing this to the notes from James' file, and I want to keep close tabs on what's different and what's similar. Gives me something more concrete to go on._

 _Like what?_

 _Have you been having any strange dreams?_

 _Um. No._ She frowned, sipping again at her coffee and pulling a face at the bitter lack of creamer. Her heart stammered over the strange sensations she'd been having. Surely that wasn't…? _Should I be?_

 _There's just an indication here that James experienced night terrors and delusions associated with trauma. Whether that refers to the initial fall from the extreme height of the train or all that resulted is slightly unclear._

 _Does that matter?_ She snorted.

 _I suppose not, no._

 _So, I might be experiencing some weird…_ She paused, chewing on her lip.

 _Strange feelings, perhaps. A nightmare or two. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a slight shift in your perception of reality—not, of course, that there's any call for concern or alarm. What you suffered—while extremely traumatic in itself—_

 _Isn't anywhere near being brainwashed and tortured for sixty years_ , she cut him off, typing before his next message could come through. _Right._

 _You might not experience any of this. I'm only warning you, should it come up. It's likely that James hasn't mentioned this because he doesn't want to scare you. But the intense pain you're experiencing, combined with your sleep depravity might just cause some strange things to crop up. Okay? Perfectly normal._

She sighed again, biting on her lip and thinking of their strange midnight trespasser. Was he all just in her head…? Was that why Jamie kept brushing it off? Seriously—she was _seeing things now_?! Pausing and forcing a moment of calm, she swallowed and took a deep breath, typing a reply.

 _Okay. I guess._

 _I want you to tell James about anything you think is weird, though, okay? He should know. Got it?_

She smirked. There went _Doctor Banner_ again. _Loud and clear, doc._

 _Hang in there, Darce. You're not alone._

Sighing again, she set the phone down and stared out at the surf. "Great," she said aloud. "Now I'm going fucking crazy."

((()))

" _Chort_!" Natasha muttered under her breath as she pushed back from her laptop. It was exactly as she'd suspected.

Steve looked up from his sketch. "What's wrong, Nat?"

She pressed a hand to her face, rattling off a long string of Russian curses that even Steve couldn't follow.

He stood, setting his drawing pad down. " _What_ , Tasha?"

She shoved at the table and her rolling chair skidded irritably back, her Eastern European temper getting the better of her. "I was right—they walked _right_ into a trap, Rogers."

He paused halfway across the room, frowning. "What do you mean?" he asked, a tentative edge to his voice. "It's never a good sign when you call me that at home…"

She stood and began pacing. "I hacked the Tower."

An eyebrow hitched. "You _hacked into Tony's system_?"

She gave him a look. " _Really_ , Steve?"

He shrugged defensively and crossed the remaining distance. "Well. I mean, I knew you were _good_ , but I thought Darce was the only one that could hack _that_ thing…"

She snorted, gesturing to the computer. "I got into his files. The log for the flight last week has been tampered with. And it was someone who covered their tracks well, because it didn't set off any of JARVIS' alarms."

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the arm of the recliner. "So…what are you saying?"

She gestured more emphatically. "I'm _saying_ someone went in and changed the log, took a look at the employee list for the private jet and the information was hastily pieced back together. Could fool JARVIS, but couldn't fool a real person who knows what patterns to look for. Someone sifted through that info, covered their tracks, but they left just the smallest trail. Enough of a ghost to keep under the security radar, but not someone who _knows_ hacking. Darcy, for example. _Me_."

"So…Tony's people…"

" _Never showed_. The pilot called in sick and the flight attendant had a car accident."

"Accident… _right_."

" _Exactly_ , Steve."

"So…who flew them out?"

Shaking her head, her face hard in frustration, she didn't answer; only charged into their room and started rummaging around in the closet.

Steve followed her, already pulling out his phone. "I'll call Star—"

"Don't call Tony yet."

He stopped in the doorway. "…Why not?"

She shook her head, a force as she yanked her go bag out of the closet and threw it on the bed. "Because this is _Darcy_ we're talking about here."

He shrugged, blinking. "Yeah, and he loves her like a _daughter_. He'll want to know—"

"He'll want to go charging in, in his bright, obvious suit and he'll blow everything. He's smart, he's methodical, but something like this takes infiltration type recon, Rogers. He won't want to wait while I ferret out what's going on."

He sighed, already feeling the tension in the back of his neck. "And what do you think is going on? I mean, we already know they made it there. What's to say it wasn't just a coincidence?"

She opened the drawer and began pulling out all her dark clothing and throwing it on the bed. "Who hacks a system like Tony's over a _coincidence_? Something as complicated as JARVIS would've taken even the most experienced hacker _days_ from the outside. Darcy and I have it easier from the interior."

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "But how are there loopholes in JARVIS' systems?"

She shrugged. "Systems take constant work. If there was an update going on they may have snuck in. Who knows? If we're dealing with HYDRA, there's no telling what type of technology they might have at their disposal to begin with." She zipped up the bag and ducked back into the closet for her weapons case. "I've got a contact that should be able to pull a few strings for me."

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. "And this contact is…?"

"He's a techie. _Technically_ , he's SHIELD, but he's off-book. Nick kept him on the payroll for double work. He sets up tech and does odd jobs for the baddies out there, then alerts Nick when things get hairy."

"So he's a narc?"

She hesitated. "…Sort of. Not sure how he was placed. Nick…"

"Wouldn't tell you?" He rolled his eyes, leaning on the door jamb. "Gee, what a surprise." He gestured with his chin. "So, what do you call this?" He knew better than to broach it directly with her. He had learned to pick his battles—not to mention his words—very carefully with her. Black Widow, indeed.

Surprisingly, she slumped. "Steve. I…I have to…"

"You have to go after your friend? _Our_ friends?" He was getting awfully good at ignoring the lump at the back of his throat. Or maybe he'd finally been lulled into confidence concerning Bucky's ability to take care of himself.

 _For God's sake, Steve, he nearly killed you. If that's what he's like when he's brainwashed, what's he really like in a fight with his full faculties?_ He had a feeling he'd still only managed to see him in action when he was holding back.

She sank onto the bed. "I…"

"You care about Darcy. That's not something you have to confess, Nat. I mean…have you…ever had…a friend before…like, a girlfriend?" he asked, delicately.

She started picking at her cuticles like she did when she was nervous. But she didn't answer. She didn't need to. "She's vulnerable."

He sat down next to her, the bed bowing under his heavy weight. "She's with Buck."

"Just because he's the Winter Soldier doesn't mean he's not vulnerable, too, Steve," she snapped. "Just vulnerable to other things." She sighed. "And Bucky…Steve, you don't…understand what it's like to have red in your ledger. You can't…understand what you'd do to try and wipe it clean, to keep others from…getting covered in it _because_ of you. _I_ do. _He_ does. If I…can help him…" She stood, swallowing. "I'm going in."

He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. "Alone?"

This gave her pause. _Real_ pause, this time, and she stopped and turned back to him, her face changing into an expression he was sad to find he couldn't read. "Steve…if we both go in, we won't have cover." She reached out to smooth the material of his t-shirt over his shoulder. "Let me do what I do."

He sighed. "Tasha…You're going in blind."

That small little smirk at the corner of her mouth. "Ain't that how it usually works?"

He frowned. "I'm perfectly capable of covert tactical support."

The smirk grew and she stepped up to slide between his legs and tilt his face back so that their eyes met. "I know, Rogers. But I need you here. I might need you to provide _support_ from here. And I might need you here to mobilize Tony. You're better off staying in the city." She leaned down to kiss him, deep and slow and he felt his entire body tighten.

Just as he gave a soft moan and wound his arms around her waist to pull her closer, she backed off, sliding deftly out of his grip. He watched her quietly for a long moment as she packed. Black. All her black gear, the cat suit that he loved. That thing did things for him he'd never expected, at least, not back, the way he'd been in '43.

Her Widow's Bites. She paused to snap one and make sure it crackled a reaction, then she slid it in, too. Her Berettas. He swiped a handgun up and stared at it. "You've got a _SIG_? When did you get a SIG?" It was top line, like Buck's, powerful, and—quite frankly—scary, even for Steve. He remembered it's capabilities, after all, waking up to a smirking Sam.

 _On your left._

She took it back and slid it into her bag. "Since Buck showed me his." That was all she offered.

He chuckled, unable to stop it as he shook his head. Then he followed her out of the room and to the door of their loft. She pulled open the door and then stopped, turning to face him, her expression one of open vulnerability he often wondered if she only showed him.

"I…" she started.

He took pity on her. "I'll head to the Tower, see what's going on over there. I'll…I'll make up some story, okay? You heard about an old handler of yours? From the Red Room? That should appease Tony for the time being."

She nodded. "You'll stay in our old place?"

He shrugged. "You do, when I'm gone. Makes enough sense, won't draw any attention."

She nodded. After a moment's more of staring up at him, she finally set her bag down and put her hands to his chest, her green eyes wide and bright. Her scarlet hair spilled over her shoulder. "You, um…You're letting me go and do this."

He shrugged again. "I'm not _letting_ you. Tasha, I'm not your handler. Remember?" Sometimes—only in rare moments of vulnerability—she needed reminding. "I'm your _husband_."

She nodded. "I know."

"Somehow. Still not sure how that happened."

She smirked. "Well, you pleaded your case pretty strongly that night in Abu Dhabi."

He felt his cheeks warm. "I don't remember doing much pleading for anything other than for you to take your clothes off."

She laughed, pressing her forehead to his chest and hiding her face. "Thank you."

"For what—begging you to take your clothes off?"

But she'd sobered again, and reached up to cup his face. "For not asking me to change."

Sobered now, himself, he just nodded, reaching up to take her hands in his.

"I love you," she murmured.

"Love you, too," he returned, leaning down to kiss her again.

And she left.

((()))

Tony heaved a hard sigh and leaned back in his rolling chair, the drone in front of him a tangled mess of parts and dangling wires. He'd been futzing with it all day, and to no real progress. Why this one was such a pain in his rear end when the others worked to general agreement, was beyond him. He'd officially given up. If the thing wasn't working by the time the kid got back, he was scrapping it and using it for parts.

The kid.

 _Kids_ , really, which was strange, considering that technically speaking, Barnes was… _older_ than he was…or was he _younger_?

He rubbed at his aching forehead with his palm and growled out another frustrated sigh. He might as well admit it to himself—he was bored.

 _Tony Stark_. Was _bored_.

And strangely lonely.

He'd never really been the type before, content to work alone. Until Pepper. And Darcy.

Something else to admit. He missed her. The Tower felt too quiet without her constant humming and flitting about, without her little sarcastic remarks as he threatened DUM-E, her movie nights in the common room, only half her time spent actually watching the movie, the other half joking under her breath with Barnes and throwing popcorn at Steve's head.

Frankly, the fact that he felt strongly enough about her to miss her at all was fairly miraculous. He'd always hated kids, had vowed never to have one, that he'd be an awful father. For most of his life, he'd barely functioned as an adult, letting Pepper lead him about by the hand.

But her _missing_ -ness was making him itchy and he wasn't sure why. It was like a sliver he couldn't rea—

"Tony?"

He jumped, nearly toppling his expensive, ergonomic desk chair onto the floor _with him in it_ as Pepper's voice patched in. "Yes, Miss Potts?" he answered, smirking at their little tradition.

"You coming up?"

He refocused his attention on the drone, mapping out what parts he'd pull off first. "What do you mean?" he said, distractedly. He sat forward and went to it with his screwdriver. "It's early."

"It's after _eleven_ , Tony," she answered patiently. The woman was so saintly in her patience with him, he considered it another miracle altogether. "Come on up to bed. You know how you get when you haven't slept."

"Unusually focused?"

"Try _manic_ , Tony," she corrected.

He didn't answer, instead rolling his chair to his tool bench and snatching up a socket wrench instead. "Won't be long. I'm just gonna take apart 13. The bastard's officially surrendering.

She sighed through the com link. "Tony. That'll take you hours, and it's not an emergency. You can do that in the morning."

The clicking of the wrench filled the space.

"Tony…" Her voice softened.

He swallowed.

"Tony…I know you're missing her. But you need to come up to bed."

"Missing _who_?"

Another sigh. " _Tony_. You might have everyone else fooled, but you don't fool me. I'm your _wife_."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potts."

The bemusement in her voice was clear as a bell. "You've been uncharacteristically restless the past week, even for you. You miss her. Or maybe both of them. I can tell you've got a soft spot for both of them."

"Don't know what you're talking about, babe," he insisted.

Now she chuckled. "You never could lie to me, Mr. Stark. You took her under your wing last spring. Don't pretend."

He slumped tiredly. "I hate you, Miss Potts. I may need to hire a replacement."

But she just laughed her bell-like laugh. "Come up to bed, Tony." A demure pause. "I'll be, uh… _waiting_ …" And she cut out.

He stood and tossed the tool and his grease rag down on his chair, sighing dejectedly. "God damn it, Lewis." If she was still, technically, _Lewis_.

Whatever. He shut off the light. He was going to bed. The sneaky little voice at the back of his mind could just suck it.

((()))

The man in the bespoke suit wasn't alone this time.

She stared at him, trying to figure out why his distant form seemed vaguely familiar, not to mention wonder if he— _they_ , now—was just a figment of her spread-too-thin mental state.

Restless, she'd slipped from their bed again, grateful for Bucky's slowly smoothed out sleeping habits as she shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen, feeling that familiar pull in her veins. She didn't understand it, but she was powerless to stop it. And she could move about more freely now that he'd gone to the drugstore and gotten some of those weird, awesome pain patches. They were working like a charm, keeping the residual aches at bay. She doubted they would do anything against an actual episode, but she was content enough in the meantime. Maybe she'd even get some sex out of it…

So she stood there, arms crossed stubbornly, watching him and his partner as they talked, nodding, then shaking their heads, like they were arguing in the night.

They talked for ten minutes before slowly heading back up the embankment again.

She frowned, trying to puzzle it out.

" _Darcy_." His voice was hard this time, not sleepy, and he used her full name, something he rarely did.

She blinked, cutting her eyes over to him. "I'm in trouble, I know."

He came into the room, pulling a hand through his mussed shaggy hair. "Darcy, baby, _c'mon_. You _can't_ keep doing this. You're under enough stress as it is."

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her hip in the vain hope that he'd notice the teeny pajama set she was wearing.

He didn't. Or, rather, of course he did, not that he was about to act on it.

"It's not like I'm _seizing_ every five minutes, Jamie. I _am_ capable of walking around."

He stopped in front of her, sighing. "Yes, I _know_. But you need more rest than you're allowing yourself to get. That will only elongate healing time. That shortens the trip that you keep complaining is ruined."

She grumbled. "It _is_ ruined."

He slid his arms around her. "No, it's not, Darce." He tugged her in close and pressed his mouth to her forehead. "We're _together_."

"You're such a _sap_. That's your superhero weakness."

"I'm _not_ a superhero."

She poked at his left arm. "Oh, yeah?"

His left appendage whirred softly as he swung her up into his arms. "This arm has been used for very, very bad, naughty things. That automatically takes me out of the running."

She snorted.

"What were you doing up, anyway?" he asked as he laid her gently down again in the bed and went around to join her.

She studied the crisp sheets, gray in the dim room. "That guy was back. The one in the suit that I saw last week." She tugged at the top sheet. "You think I'm crazy, I know."

He sighed and gathered her close. "I don't think you're crazy, Darce. I think you're _exhausted_."

She pressed her palm to his bare chest, and his sternum was warm where it pulsed under her hand, his heartbeat rapid, as usual, strong and steady. She nodded.

His mouth found the shell of her ear. "So, sleep, dollface. Okay?" He tucked his face against the hollow where her shoulder met her neck, and his exhale was soft and soothing on her skin.

Her heart squeezed. She'd missed this, tangling close in the dark, nothing between them, nothing to worry about. Just his lean body, solid and steady. His warm skin, especially on wintry nights and Jane had had her out and about all day in the snow.

She curled her leg around him and he hitched her knee over his hip.

Finally, snug in his embrace, she slept.

((()))

Bedded down for the night in a tiny safe house, high in the Hollywood Hills, Natasha turned on her Starkphone. The Red Eye flight had felt much longer than the _average Red Eye flight_ and she was exhausted, and beyond glad she'd thought to set this place up, tucked into the cliffs of California, some years ago, just after Clint had flipped her. One of her longest days in Manhattan had quickly turned into one of her longest days _period_ , and she was glad to have finally finished her trip, secure in the idea that she'd come on a correct hunch.

Lasov had done his digging, and sure enough, a cagey operation had installed the pilot and the flight attendant, a dingy looking blond that probably had spent the flight ogling Bucky and annoying Darcy to no end.

But her informant had been cagey about just who she was dealing with. He'd given her little, obviously spooked beyond belief, which probably meant he was in the middle of one of their operations and didn't appreciate being pumped right in the middle of it, raising his chances of his cover being blown.

Less than thrilled with the just barely confirmation she'd received, she chewed on her thumbnail for a moment while her phone loaded before catching herself and shoving her hand under her thigh on the suede couch.

Nervous habits. She was developing them left and right. Steve said it was natural, especially in their line of work, but she resented it. She'd been trained, taught—forced—into being even keeled and unshakeable, cool and steady in the face of danger and tension. She was good at what she did. She'd been the best of her group, a favorite. Where usually being a favorite meant leniency and treats, favors and an easy ride, in the Red Room, it just meant you were pushed that much harder, the belt to the wrists if she showed any inclination toward weakness. She'd had the nervousness beaten out of her. Now it was coming out of the woodwork.

It was Steve.

It had to be.

She felt comfortable now, safe and secure.

Because of him.

She was letting herself get sloppy.

Was that a bad thing? Could she still do her job, and do it to the fullest extent—still be the Black Widow—and feel secure in the knowledge that nothing would remain changed afterward?

Her phone chimed and she found a text from the man in question. _Tell me you're safe_ , was all it said.

She smirked, her heart unclenching. _Roger that_ , she texted and hit send, then yawned widely and slouched back against the cushions.

There'd been an obnoxious kid a seat down from her the entire flight that had been enough on the side of Holy Terror to make her glad she'd vowed never to have children, even before her sterilization.

 _Think you're clever, huh?_ _Anything to report, Agent Romanoff?_

She snorted indelicately and shook her head. Whenever they were apart like this, their relationship devolved into teasing banter, and at first, she'd been surprised he was capable of it.

Maybe Darcy had rubbed off on him a little. Of course, it wasn't as though Bucky wasn't full of sarcasm and his own brand of affectionate teasing. He and Darcy were tailor made for each other.

 _Not much, Captain. Definitely not Tony's staff._

 _Not good._

 _Should I start calling you Captain Obvious instead?_

She smiled. What he'd done to her in the past year… She shook her head, her heart squeezing. He'd finally quelled the inclination in her to call it a weakness, her feelings for him.

 _Really obnoxious kid on the flight, too. Didn't get any sleep._

 _I'm sure he wasn't that bad. You're just uptight about Darcy._

Steve _loved_ kids. If she really dug deep, particularly on long ops, or periods away from him, she had to admit to herself that it bothered her, the fact that they would never have that life; a _normal_ life, with a house and a fence and a VW and a family.

Maybe that was why she had grown closer to Darcy in the past few months. They were in the same boat. And while she knew that Darcy shared her feelings about parenthood—and Bucky shared them as well—she also knew that something about losing it all without a choice made Darcy itch too.

The small child in her, the one still living on the streets of St. Petersburg with ideals and tiny dreams and dirty feet still imagined herself with a prince in a castle.

Steve _was_ a prince.

But there was no castle. It had crumbled to dust in the backrooms of drug houses while she dispatched the runners and sliced the throat of their crime boss in the dark, with half her clothes torn off.

Crumbled to dust as she slunk along alleys of the city, taking out snipers and mercenaries just like Bucky—only much, much smaller and clearly not as advanced—only to go home to the Room and wait for further instructions.

Her phone rang, yanking her out of her past and back to the simple, elegant design of the safe house. Blinking, she tapped the screen.

" _Stop thinking about the Red Room_."

Her walls went up; they always did with the mention of her past, even with Steve. "How do you know I was thinking about it, Rogers?" she shot back, playing for coy.

But he took the route he always did, and it always caught her off guard somehow, him deftly ducking her defenses with tenderness. "Tasha…c'mon."

She swallowed. "I hate you, Rogers."

A small smile in his voice. "No, you don't. It's _done_. _Let_ it be done."

"What if it's _not_? What if it's just someone _else_ now? And they've got their hands on Darcy?"

"She's with _Buck_."

She chewed on her lip for a moment. "And if they split them up? Take Darcy for all she's got while she's weak and uncoordinated? Turn Bucky back in on himself, _turn him against Darcy_?"

Steve was silent, and it was clear to her that he either hadn't thought that far ahead or had been putting it out of his mind. "But—"

"We don't know for sure if any of their conditioning remains locked away in his head, Steve. He's _better_. He's _healed_. But he might not be out of the woods. All of that other stuff would be _nothing_ if they did that to him. He'd _never_ forgive himself."

He sighed. "And Darcy—"

"Has been good for _shit_ , lately, and getting worse. It's driving Bucky up a wall."

"What do you mean?"

She smirked. "You could use some work on your observation skills, sometimes, Cap. You can read people like a book, but only if you're paying attention."

She could practically _hear_ him blushing.

"You haven't noticed a strain on him lately? The past two months, the circles under his eyes have been making a reappearance. And Darcy's been quieter than usual, sallow and sick. Stark said Bruce has been burning the candle at both ends over her blood work, and all for nothing so far."

"So you rushed off to feel useful?"

She huffed out a sigh. "I rushed off to cover them while they were vulnerable. I heard Tony on the phone with her last week, talking her down. The episodes are getting worse. They need all the help they can get, and I'm good at what I do, Steve."

A long pause. "I'm just…I worry about you."

Her frustration softened and she smiled. "Like you worried about me in New York, throwing me up on your shield to hitch a ride with the Chitauri?"

He snorted softly. "Yeah. Right."

Her second phone beeped.

"I gotta go, Rogers. Got a call coming in."

"You tell that informant of yours he gives you a bum steer, I'll be tracking him down and introducing him to my shield, you got that, Romanoff?"

And she smirked. "Yeah, you and Liam Neeson, right?" She hung up, switching for the cheap burner she'd established with Lasov earlier that afternoon. "You got something for me?"

His thin voice shook as he spoke, quickly and quietly. "Yeah, but we've only got one shot, here, so you can't screw it up."

She raised a brow. "You do remember who you're talking to, right?"

He huffed out a rough, hard sigh. "Yeah, yeah. Just, listen. You can't ask questions. These guys are serious. They need a woman for muscle, but they didn't give me any details. You want in, yes or no?"

She sat forward for the notepad she'd set on the cocktail table. "Go."

((()))

Steve didn't like this, he did not like it at all. It was like his skin was itching and he felt exposed and obvious the next day as he went around the Tower as usual. He sat, jiggling his leg nervously as he waited for everyone in the empty conference room. This whole _doing nothing_ thing was eating at him, worse than ever before, and with Darcy, Bucky, and now _Natasha_ away and out of his reach, he was practically _twitching_.

He snorted. Darcy would suggest yoga.

"You know, Maria, I'm surprised at you. Didn't think you were capable of feeling guilt, girl. What's got you wound so tight?" Sam's voice drifted down the hall.

Maria huffed. "Don't pretend you know anything about what I'm feeling, Sam," she snapped, her voice low and harsh.

But Sam was laughing. "Ooh, man, you're all fired up!"

Another hard sigh. "Don't know why you have to act like such an ass. All I did was ask you out for a drink."

"And I told you that while I appreciate the effort, 'trying' is usually defined by some sort of apology."

"I already apologized to you!" she argued. " _Twice_!"

Steve winced.

Maria had had a hard time the past couple months. Her backstabbing of both Bucky _and_ Darcy with her harsh opinion and invalid suspicions hadn't won her any allies, especially with her vicious delivery.

He was glad, in hindsight, that he and Natasha had both been out that morning. He knew—Captain America or not—that if he'd been in that room to see pale, exhausted Darcy being verbally berated in front of their entire team like she was some cheap floozy, he'd have been unable to control his reaction.

He felt very protective of her, like a little sister that he'd never met back…home? Was it home anymore? No. It was a strange alternate reality to him, now, the 1944 he'd left behind.

He supposed that was some sort of progress.

Her relationship with his best friend had felt like some sort of weird, surreal dream and he'd had to blink a few times to see it properly, go back through his conscious mind and retread all the little things he'd missed. Little, half-truths to keep it quiet, a lingering look here, a glance there, a soft pink blush on Darcy's cheeks. The bubbly sound of her laughter and a strange new light in Bucky's eyes that had been distinctly missing before.

Natasha was right: sometimes he was a blind idiot.

"Oh, God, Hill, don't tell me you think a few half-assed words are really gonna do the trick this time. And, besides—I meant an apology to _them_ , not me. You didn't hurt _my_ feelings, Maria."

An actual, audible pause in the hallway. "…Then why the hell—"

"A vicious attack like the one you laid on that poor girl when she was already hurting is distinctly unattractive, Maria," Sam said, his voice low and hard, defensive, and Steve wasn't sure he'd ever heard him sound quite that shade of perturbed before. "What you showed me that morning was an ugly side of you, and I won't lie—it crossed my mind what else you kept hidden from me, what else you'd do if we stayed together. So I ended it."

The hallway was deafeningly quiet.

"Sam—"

"Listen, it's too early for this. We've got a meeting." And he brushed her off, sliding through the doorway and coming face to face with Steve.

For just a moment, their gazes met, and Steve had just enough in the way of reflexes to give him an encouraging nod of appreciation before Maria ducked in after him.

They took spots at opposite ends of the table.

The next ten minutes had Steve seriously regretting that he'd been powerless enough in his restlessness to arrive fifteen minutes early to their weekly meeting. He blew a stream of air up, at the rebellious locks of hair that were falling over his brow and tried to contain his frustration.

Sam was playing at the cold shoulder, futzing with his phone like he was totally unaware the two of them were still occupying the same space.

Maria was glaring daggers at him, unabashedly, totally ignoring her teammate.

He sighed.

This went on for ten endless minutes before Tony arrived—to much fanfare, in fact—the attack alarms blaring out in the hall as he ducked his head through the doorway with a mischievous smirk. "Meeting's cancelled. World's ending. We've got a job." And he ducked back out again.

They lunged up out of their expensive ergonomic office chairs, wincing at the screaming alarm, and Steve had to smile at the sound.

"God, what _is_ that?!" Maria yelled, covering her ears as they huddled in the doorway, shifting restlessly as they waited for one of them to leave first.

"Science Fiction! Tony's little joke!" Steve yelled back, ducking through the doorway, unbelievably glad to have been—what was it Darcy had referenced, some show called _Saved By the Bell_?—called for something to do with his hands. Also— _Hey_!—another reference that he understood!

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam bellowed back, scowling and wincing at the volume of the alarm, a manic, repetitive shriek that started low and quickly went up in pitch in a short, rapid blare.

" _Star Trek_!"

Sam frowned again as he followed him out of the room. "That ain't in the movies, Steve!"

He sighed as he led them down the hall toward the elevator. "Not the _movies_! The _show_!" He hit the button and the doors slid open.

The alarm continued in the confined space, but at a much milder volume. _Welcome, Captain, Agents Hill and Wilson. Allow me to take you to the Tactical Level_ , JARVIS announced, and the lift began to descend.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, sounding relieved to be able to use a normal volume.

Steve sighed. "You know, the _Original Series_ , from the Sixties? William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, DeForest Kelley? _Red Alert_?"

Maria frowned. "Who?"

Sam rapidly followed. " _What_?!"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You guys have never seen the _Original Series_?! It's a classic!"

Sam blinked at him. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"

He sighed again. "It was one of the first things that Darcy showed me."

Maria just shook her head, folded her arms, and faced the doors, going her typical icy calm.

Sam cocked his head. "What's that got to do with the alarms?"

They were still going off, Tony's little reference. Darcy had burst out laughing when he'd suggested the idea the week before in the lab. He and Bucky had gone down to have lunch with them and Tony had casually mentioned that wouldn't it be hilarious to use the _Red Alert_ sound effect? When the doors opened on the Tactical Floor that housed their weapons and uniforms, Steve had to yell again to be heard, and shrugged with a smirk as they went down the hall. "I guess Tony's a fan!"

((()))

She hadn't been able to call Steve. There hadn't been much time, and the few moments she'd been able to spare had been useless—he hadn't picked up. She chewed on her lip. It was early. The man slept like a god damn rock.

Usually, she had a tight clamp on her emotions, especially those of the nervous order.

But if this went sideways…

She hoped he knew how she…what she…what he'd done for her…opened her up in unexpected ways and…

She swallowed, and tightened her hands into fists.

 _Keep it together, Romanoff. Do your job. You're good at this. You keep your cool._

The thug behind her slid a palm into the small of her back and urged her forward.

 _The Black Widow kept her fucking cool._

He pushed a little harder toward the door they were walking toward.

There was a lump lodged in her belly and the only weapon she had was the knife lodged in her ankle boot.

God, Steve would kill her if she didn't come back.

But…she'd kill Darcy if _she_ didn't come back.

Bucky would kill Natasha just for doing this, playing this game. He hated games, James Barnes, and she knew—deep down, where he hardly dared—that he was terrified one of the games they played as SHIELD agents would do more harm than good, particularly if he was involved.

She understood this fear, the physical need for redemption, a hollow pit in the stomach where all your regret pooled in a bloody hole.

It had taken her a long time to stop hearing the screams from what she'd done, what she'd been responsible for…

She could only imagine how it was for him.

Darcy was some kind of saint, she was sure. An absolute miracle worker.

Her friend.

It was good, she was slowly finding out, to have a…what had Steve called it? A girlfriend.

Someone of a similar mind to talk to, gossip with, share a drink. That was what women did, right? They went out for martinis and gossiped about the moms in their group and complained about their men and compared them in bed? Right?

She had no desire to do any of that, though, and she didn't think Darcy did either. Mostly they talked about SHIELD. Tony's shenanigans. Steve's missions, Bucky's nightmares. They'd watched that last Bond movie a couple weeks ago.

God, was that really just a couple weeks ago?!  
"Let's go, Sweet Cheeks. Boss is waiting. And he's not a patient man."

She was going to kill Lasov, too, in fact. When he'd told her he had a way in, he had only mentioned that the assholes needed some feminine muscle, not a fucking chew toy. This guy at her back was sucking around for a punch to the collar bone. She was _this close_ …

With one last shove, he pushed her through the standing door and into a brightly lit room, what appeared—upon further inspection—to be an office, opulent, for a CEO type, with yards and yards of expensive carpeting and a lavish desk.

And the face behind it was familiar. _Impossibly_ familiar.

Not that she was going to make that obvious or anything.

He smiled, genially, which only made his scarred face creepier. "Hello, Black Widow," he said, cocking his head and studying her. "Funny meeting you here. Come here often?"

"Even if I did, you wouldn't know, considering you're supposed to be dead," she returned.

He chuckled, so casually, like they were having a cute little conversation. "Funny how things like that happen, hm? Soldiers that spend decades sleeping. Big green men that find it impossible to commit suicide? Stuff of legend, hm?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a square look.

He gestured widely with his hands. "And the infamous Black Widow is here. Day of days." The look slid wry. "Why are you here, by the way? Honeymoon over already? Oh, wait…"

She was careful with her expression here, and let that little smirk that Steve loved curl one tiny side of her mouth. "You could say that."

"And…? You're…bored? Domesticated? _Mr. Roger's_ too… _nice_ for you?" he sneered.  
She shrugged demurely. "Friend of mine heard there was some action."

He snickered, shaking his head. "Everyone knows you're SHIELD, Romanoff."

Another shrug. "No one said I had to _only_ be SHIELD."

He raised an eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to just…take you at your word? A known Russian spy? Just like that?"

Rolling her eyes, she mentally crossed herself and dropped her shoulders. "Fine. You want the truth? This plan I hear you've got in motion involves a little someone I'd like to take care of myself. Alright?"

 _Don't smirk. Hold the act. She'd done it countless times before. Cold, icy eyes. Hot, fierce expression. Hard body language. Hold…_

He eyed her up, not blinking once, his own expression calculating and clever.

 _Hold…Hold, Natasha…_

She wasn't sure if it was her own voice, or Steve's.

Likely, he was wondering how on earth she'd known the details of his mission, who might've squealed and why.

"Why's that?" he finally asked.

She had to work not to release a relieved huff of air. "Let's just say Captain Rogers isn't the saintly superhero America thinks he is. And sometimes attention-seeking friends can…stab you in the back."

 _Don't snort, either, Nat._ The day Darcy ditched Armani-worthy Bucky and shagged her big brother Steve would see Loki come cross-dressed to LA looking for movie work. Darcy and Steve had been attached at the hip before she'd ever gotten involved. If they'd been teetering on the edge of something like that, it would've tipped by that time, and there certainly would've been plenty of tension to pick up on. There'd been _nothing_.

And the only way she could truly think of to describe her friend and Bucky was like two binary planets, orbiting each other, locked in one path together.

It was sweet. It was a relief. It was a certain shade of heartbreaking, the way she'd…saved him. She almost felt guilty using this story.

Should she feel ashamed or embarrassed or sappy in the knowledge that they had couple friends to double date with? Probably. That didn't mean she was going to.

A slow, cocky little smile unfurled on his mouth and he nodded, sitting back in his chair and steeple-ing his fingers. "A little too close for comfort?"

A non-committal shrug indicating she held the higher ground and was done talking about it.

"So you'd like to take care of this friend?"

She cocked her eyebrow and shifted her hips in confirmation, hoping it'd be convincing. Enough people had wondered over the years, her aloof nature making her appear morally ambiguous. She'd used that to her advantage before. Hopefully it could work to her advantage again…

He sat back in his chair. "Show me what you can do."

She cocked the other brow as though to say, ' _Seriously?_ '

He smirked, gesturing one of the thugs forward. "I've always wanted a show from the Black Widow."


	5. Chapter 5: Nowhere Left to Run

**Summary:** **Things are officially going to pot.**

 **Notes:** **Alright, guys. Finally here with the update. This one is where things start to really go wonky. I know this has been bothering a few of you (oops...sorry?) so here is about half the reveal. I'll be honest, the official full reveal isn't until next chapter, but this one should really (assuming I've done this right) send a few of you off speculating. To some of you, it might even be seriously obvious. Sorry if that's a disappointment...lol** **Am I doing okay, here, guys? I've been getting less communication than I have in the past, and I just wanna check that I'm not totally turning some of you off...? Let me know if there's a question, or a complaint, or something unclear/if you have a suggestion. I'm very open to suggestions! Also, as I've stated previously, I'm very open to doing little one shots, too! Just shoot me a message in my inbox and we can chat! That includes the background characters!** **So, anyhoo, this chapter is considerably longer than I think any I've done previously (sorry, again?) for the simple reason that I just needed a natural stopping point, with this reveal, and unfortunately it really ended up stretching. Also, the flashbacks are really strong in this segment, see if you can spot them all ahead of time!** **I love you all, please let me know what you think? And if you've got an idea, shoot me that message!** **Sarah (MLC)**  
 **PS-Title from a previous playlist, it's a reference to a song by the British band, McFly. Go check them out, they're good! Also-I always forget this part-I DON'T OWN MARVEL. MARVEL OWNS MARVEL. Sad face.** **((()))**

 **Nowhere Left to Run:**

((()))

Well, _that_ question was answered.

Why it usually happened at night—when she was the most relaxed she could _ever_ be—was beyond her.

Wincing, she tugged her tank top up and ripped the pain patch off her belly, tossing it aside with a scowl. It did absolutely nothing to keep the episodes at bay. She'd figured that would end up being the case, but she'd held out foolish, wasted hope.

It was just a good thing that when she'd woken up a half hour ago, she'd had the presence of mind to slip out of bed and settle instead on the couch.

She couldn't help her restless shifting around, and she would've woken Jamie in a matter of seconds, the pain twisting her up into a little ball of agony.

She missed the way her life— _their_ life—had been before. _Before_ she'd been jabbed and turned into a Mutant, _before_ she'd become a total liability and a useless blob of pain.

She missed snuggling on the couch without having to worry about what might be coming.

She missed going for a walk and not being totally drained afterward.

She missed sleeping through the night.

She missed _sex_. _God_ , she missed sex.

She missed the time when Bucky didn't look sallow with strain and worry.

This was supposed to be a fucking honeymoon, not a pity party.

If she could move—like move _properly_ —she'd get up, go back in there, and climb on top of him and just have done with it.

In fact—

"Darcy…"

She groaned. "Kill me. Just take your left hand, wrap it around my throat, squeeze and kill me. Be quick about it. I'm a wuss, I don't wanna suffer," she grumbled from under her elbow. "Just put me out of my misery. Have pity on me. You can have all the money—oh, wait, the money's all yours to begin with. Never mind."

A sigh in the dark. "Darcy."

"Seriously. Just pretend you're still, you know, the creepy version of you, and just, you know, put me out of my misery."

"Nice try, with the hiding out here, thing."

"If this is my life, now, I don't wanna live it. No snuggling, no running around, no sex—"

"Hey, I never promised the 'no sex' thing and I have no intention of making good on that," he quipped. "This is just a…quiet _window_ ," he allowed.

" _Kill_. _Me_."

He sighed again.

"Jamie."

"Darcy." He came around the couch and bent over her. "C'mon, baby, back to bed, huh?"

"Jamiii _eeeee_ …" she whined as he lifted her easily into his arms, finishing with a whimper of pain.

"Daaarcyyyyy," he answered. "Try to relax. Don't try to fight it."

"You tell me that every single God damn time. Aren't you getting tired of this script?"

He laid her down on the bed and tugged at the sheets. "No. Darcy. I took a vow."

"I remember," she groaned as she curled up again, pressing her face into her pillow. "Such a nice memory, you saying all those pretty words. Let's go back there. This sucks."

He gave a tender little laugh. "I'm sorry, love."

"I don't think 'in sickness and in health' includes clauses for Mutant spouses."

He huffed as he crawled back in beside her. "Darcy, how many times? You are _not_ a Mutant. They're only in Stevie's comics."

"You and Steve are Mutants, too. And Bruce. Natasha—sort of. You know, the other day, when we were in town, the cover of this stupid paparazzi rag advertised rumors of a fling between those two! _Bruce_! And _Nat_! _Can you imagine_?"

"No. Not in the slightest."

A stab of pain stopped the laugh in her throat and she winced. "Me neither," she gasped.

He began running his wide circles on her back again. "Breathe. Also, those vows are probably open to interpretation, to a certain extent, and I interpret them to imply that I pull you through this. You were strong for both of us in the beginning when I couldn't be. It's my turn. Don't worry. I can carry us both."

She tried to laugh, but it just came out another groan. "God, how Catholic _were_ you?"

He chuckled softly. "Pretty Catholic. Like, Roman Catholic. Don't get much more Catholic than that."

"Barnes," she murmured. "What is that, anyway? How have I never asked you these things?"

He snorted. "We've had plenty of more important things to talk about. You know, what with the fact that you're married to a mercenary, and all that."

She curled in on herself as another wave of pain rippled outward from her scar.

"British. _Barnes_ is Old English. But mom was Italian."

She bit down on her lower lip. "Italians in Brooklyn. Really breaking the mold, there, huh, husband?"

He laughed.

"That's how you cook like a pro. I knew there had to be a reason. It's lodged up in that brain somewhere from your mother when you were a kid. _That's_ what it is."

"Her lasagna was fantastic, it's true."

"You remember, huh?" She clutched at his metal hand, squeezing her eyes shut.

He switched it up, abandoning the circle to run his hand up her back, between her shoulder blades, then back down again. "I also remember her telling me that the old adage worked both ways and that the way to a _woman's_ heart was food, too."

A laugh forced its way out of her, before the pain bit it back again. "Ah. Well, it didn't hurt that her son is really— _fucking_ — _gorgeous_ —oh, _son of a bitch_."

" _Breathe_."

" _I'm-not-in-labor-Jamie_!" she snapped. "Thank God."

He chuckled. "Yeah, let's not go down that road, eh?"

Her teeth chattered. "Hold me tighter."

He wound his arms around her harder.

"It feels like I'm shaking apart."

He squeezed.

She pressed her face against his belly, burrowing, nuzzling into him with her brow and groaning. "Ugh, God, when this is over, there's one favor I need from you."

He eyed the top of her head with trepidation. "Yeah?"

"Run me a bubble bath. _Really_ hot, the way you do it."

His eyebrow rose, already sure there was a caveat. "And _then_?"

"Fuck all this. I'm done letting this control me. First, bubble bath. Then, I want you to make me _scream_ your name so the next place over can fucking hear me. Got it?"

He smirked. "Yes, ma'am."

((()))

Sighing, Steve hurled the last little devil bot to the ground and finally straightened, scowling at the street around him, now littered with dozens and dozens of the things. Some techie wannabe had apparently sent Stark an email about testing his armor against his newest piece of genius and had endeavored to release them in some hive style joke.

Not that anyone was laughing. The little eel-shaped devils were designed to wrap themselves around the nearest heat-censored being and latch until they were destroyed, and had quickly filled New York's Upper East Side, causing the streets to empty in short order while the local cops called them in a panic in hopes they'd sort it out. Now here he was, armor ripped and singed from the little beasts, cuts along his throat and ears, decidedly grumpy.

What did it say about him that he wasn't grumpy so much because of their very rude interruption and more because he was doing this without having had the warm benefit of waking up with his naked wife wrapped around him?

Tony flew up—his armor annoyingly undamaged—and lowered his repulsors, dropping to his feet with a clank on the pavement. "Well. That was fun," he said, his voice tinny through the helmet. The faceplate slid back with a soft whir and Steve saw the frustration in his eyes. "We should do this more often."

"Thought you'd appreciate the… _distraction_."

Tony scowled as he looked around at the littered pavement. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."

Steve sighed. "I thought I was done with the whole _'jumping outta my skin'_ thing."

Tony gave him a dry look and bent to kick at one small creature with his metal foot. "Roger's, I haven't been this bored in _years_. I had no idea the kid kept me that entertained."

Steve had to bite his tongue, guilt licking at him as he kept Natasha's true whereabouts a secret.

"Where'd you say Romanoff went again?"

Wincing, he looked away and tried to harden his voice from giving him away. "Some informant of hers had intel on some…guy from the Red Room. You'd imagine she wanted to take off after him."

Tony snorted. "Oh, yeah. _I_ would."

He tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. Well. Half a sigh, anyway. He was so unbelievably worried, he could barely stand up straight. What was worse was the fact that he knew he really had no right. How many times had she hung back while he went into the trenches, digging for intel while she stayed in the Tower with Darcy, going to bars to distract themselves? They _hated_ bars—both of them—and only went when they were feeling claustrophobic.

He remembered hearing about one story he still wasn't entirely sure he believed, revolving around Natasha chasing down a purse snatcher all the way through Central Park only for Darcy to have skipped around the short way and tasered him on the other side, jumping out from behind a park bench just as Natasha tackled him. The two of them had apparently wrestled him around, retrieved the expensive Prada and then used the small tip the woman was able to spare—apparently the bag had been a gift—to go get half drunk around the corner.

It was true, though, that Steve had come back to find Darcy nursing a headache in Stark's lab, Bucky shaking his head as he squeezed her shoulders before joining him for their debrief.

So worrying about her now felt like a double standard.

And worrying about Darcy.

And Bucky.

He could remember the first time they came up as a duo in the same paragraph. He'd been over at Darcy's tiny apartment one wintry Friday night, and they'd been struggling to decide on what he should watch next in his _All Media, All the Time Catch-Up._

"You've had one too many beers, haven't you?"

She snorted a laugh. "Jane had me out _all day_ , slogging through that gray shit out there, tracking down a thingamabob for her whatchamacallit machine. So, _yes_. I'm cold. In fact, I don't think my toes will ever come unstuck from each other. I'm _exhausted_. I could probably sleep for a goddamn week. And—to top it all off—I haven't been good and laid in far, _far_ too long. So _yes_. I got started as soon as I came in the damn door, Steve." She held up her Corona Light, the lime bouncing against the glass bottle. "This is my fourth. Don't judge me."

He held up his hands in surrender, even as he tried not to blush at the frankness of her sexual confession. He was no choir boy, but he was still getting used to people throwing out things like that without care in this new day and age, and he tried not to blush. "Hey. No judgment here. Just a statement."

She laughed, taking a pull off the beer.

"Besides…" He cleared his throat. "What about, uh…Ian, right?"

She snorted again, rolling her eyes. "Oh, _God_ , we split last week."

"You _did_?"

"And besides, we were nowhere _near_ the sex stage. Even if we were, it probably wouldn't have happened. The few times we made out, I noticed absolutely zero, uh…" She gestured, raising her eyebrows. "Well, you know— _excitement_."

He raised his own. " _None_?"

She shook her head. "None." Then she grinned, turning to face him where she sat on her carpeted floor, between his place on the couch and the TV. "You know, this is nice. I never thought I'd be having _girl talk_ with _Captain America_ , but sure as hell—here I am."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Maybe Ian was just… _nervous_?"

She raised a single brow and eyed him. "That should get—if anything—the _reverse_ effect, shouldn't it?" The look had drifted into sly territory, and she slapped his shin with her hand. "C'mon, Steve-O. We both know you're no virginal superhero. Spill."

He laughed. "No, I'm not. But no, I won't."

She rolled her eyes. "Ugh, you're no fun." She held up a DVD case. "How about _Sherlock_?"

"Is that the new one everyone's talking about? With that Cumbernauld guy?"

She giggled, opening the case. "Cumber _batch_. Okay. _Sherlock_ it is." She popped in the disc and settled on the couch next to him, passing him his own beer and throwing her legs across his lap. This, too, he was getting used to—snuggling casually, with people you weren't physically or romantically involved with. And Darcy…she was…she reminded him of Becca, not that he'd _ever_ tell Bucky that. Like the little sister he'd never had. She was quickly becoming very warm and special in a way he thought he'd lost.

He forced himself to set his hands on her shins, understood that there was nothing romantic about the casual gesture. They were just two friends, right? "Well. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

"Eh." She shrugged. "Don't worry—it's not like I'm torn up about it. It was just one of those _'heat of the moment'_ things, you know?" She took another sip of her beer. "We were running from Dark Elves in Greenwich and Jane almost _died_ , and then we thought _Thor_ died, and _blah blah_. He stopped a car from squishing me, so I kissed him. We had _nothing_ in common. Actually, after I hired him to help me out with Jane, I sort of thought he was an annoying little twerp."

He smirked. "The heat of danger, right?"

She laughed softly. "There is something sort of…seductive about it, isn't there? That you almost died, you felt your mortality breathing down your neck, right?"

He nodded. "So there was no spark?"

She rolled her eyes, picking up the DVD remote and hitting a button. " _Ugh_ , no. None, _whatsoever_. Died a quick death." She shrugged again. "Of course, now I get to suffer through the indignity of going _stag_ to Tony and Pepper's wedding…"

He opened his mouth to suggest they go together, but Natasha's face flitted through his mind, and his jaw snapped audibly shut.

She snorted, not noticing his internal struggle. "Maybe I should ask your buddy."

He felt his face change, falling in sheer surprise. " _Buck_?"

She let out what he knew was an embarrassed laugh. "Not that he'd go with me."

He blinked, the thought slipping from his mouth before he'd had a chance to think about whether it was a good idea and might make her uncomfortable. After all, the Winter Soldier made just about _everyone_ uncomfortable. "He might surprise you."

Now it was her turn to blink. "Steve. I was _joking_."

He cocked his head. " _Were_ you?"

She slumped, blushing. "Alright, you caught me. I was _half_ joking."

He watched the DVD menu play on the TV. " _So_ …?"

She sighed. "Oh, I wasn't being _serious_. He just looks…"

Scary?

Deadly?

Creepy?

"Lonely."

Again, he caught himself blinking stupidly in surprise at her unexpected choice of word. "Wait—what?"

She shrugged again, deliberately not looking at him. "Well. He's…been through Hell, you know? And he looks lonely. Like he needs a hug—or ten. Not that he'd let anyone get that close." Another blush, brighter than the last. "If I'm being honest, he's about _ten times_ better looking in person than I thought he would be when I circled his face in my history textbook in middle school."

He couldn't stop the smile from splitting his face. "Oh, yeah?"

A sheepish shrug. "Not that he's in any place to notice the people around him right now. And not that I'd blame him. I don't know how he's functioning at all, let alone _upright_."

He rubbed a hand down her shin, then back up, not sure if he was comforting her or himself. "He's tough, Buck. He didn't get Sergeant for nothing. Pretty fast rising too. Spent a long time in the trenches while I was back in Brooklyn, trying to reenlist, over and over."

She looked up at him finally, sober. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "He'll be fine. He just needs time. He always did bounce back better than me. All he needs is time."

She nodded too, in agreement.

"And maybe an ear, maybe from someone who doesn't know him, you know?"

Another shrug.

"You're his type, you know." He bit the inside of his cheek as soon as it left his mouth and he could've slapped himself.

She jerked, a bright, cynical laugh darting from her throat. "Hah! Steve. _Please_."

Oh, well. Might as well. What the heck. "You _are_."

She snorted. "What? Loud-mouthed, outspoken, totally lacking in a filter, and incapable of taking much of anything seriously?"

"That's not what I meant. And we both know you're not really like that. _Are_ you?"

Again, her expression sobered, and she looked away, down at her bottle, to pick at the Corona label.

"You're small and curvy, and brunette. And your eyes are huge. And you're full of…well, we used to call it _moxie_. You're like a pixie, or a sprite." He smirked. "He was always drawn to that type."

Her face was pink and she was chewing on her lip and laughing, shaking her head as she started the DVD. " _Steve_. Seriously, shut up."

"I'm _serious_. Don't be so quick."

She fixed him with a glare. "And don't you _dare_ tell him I said any of that!"

He held his hands up in surrender. "I won't. Not much to tell." Unable to resist, though, he'd shrugged. "You'd be good for him, though. I mean it. You'd be good together."

She snorted again, dropping the remote to the couch cushion. "Next you'll have us getting _married_ …"

—" _Rogers_!"

He jumped, yanking himself out of the thick memory, and nearly reached up to wipe it from in front of his face. "Sorry."

Tony was looking at him with just a pinch of wariness. "You okay, there, Cap?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Just worried…"

Tony resumed his pace up the deserted street, slinging an eel-like machine over one shoulder and snatching up another in his other hand.

But, God, if Nat was going in with these guys…

"What's got you so uptight, _Captain Romanoff_?" Tony needled as gently as Tony was capable of, crouching as best he could in his suit to flip one of the mechanized eels over on the pavement and study it.

He turned back to him, schooling his features. "Just worried about her, that's all." There. Not a total lie. Actually, it was all truth.

Tony nodded as he poked at the exposed wiring, clucking his tongue. "Loses charge awful quick, ya amateur." He sighed. "She'll be fine, Cap. She's scary when she's _relaxing_. Woman's an _Amazon_. Don't worry. Here." He straightened, tossing the machine at him and Steve's enhanced reflexes kept him from dropping it. "Take one. I'll take a few more. We'll start the clean-up and then get these back to the lab. Wanna check these out a little more, make sure we're not dealing with anything under the surface."

Steve followed him up the street, gingerly cradling the bot on his shield. "Do you think that's likely?"

"Nah. Just looking for something to stave off the boredom until Short Stack gets back. I'll kill somebody pretty soon…Or Pepper will kill me. One of them is bound to come first."

((()))

"Oh, _God_ …" she whimpered, clutching the sheets tight in her hands before restlessly giving up to clutch at Bucky's shoulders. "Oh, God… _Jamie_ …"

He set his mouth to hers in an electric kiss, something she still marveled at after countless times with him now. She'd never been kissed before the way he did.

Either way, it was enough to tip her over the edge and the orgasm yanked her under and turned her inside out, everything in her pulling tight and shivering to a shuddering finish.

He followed close behind her, triggered by her cathartic release, his teeth closing around her clavicle, his heart absolutely hammering against her sternum, creating a strange echo of her own.

They stayed like that for a long time, Bucky's mouth pressed tenderly to her shoulder, their bodies warm and snug, tight and seamless.

Darcy let her fingertips run lazily up his back, then back down, then back up, as she listened to her slowing heart pounding in her ears. The finish flooded her synapses and muffled the energy in the room, softening the constant crash of the ocean waves out the open windows. "I love you," she murmured.

He shifted, nuzzling his face against the soft underside of her jaw. "Even though I didn't make you scream my name?"

She sighed out a laugh, adjusting as he slipped away and stretched out beside her. "I've never been much of a screamer. I should've told you that you were fighting a losing battle."

He smirked, his metal arm slipping around her waist. "Yeah, well, even if you had, you wouldn't have dissuaded me. I spent weeks in French trenches thinking I was gonna die for nothing."

She pulled her fingers through her hair. "It looked pretty grim at the beginning, if I remember my history lessons correctly."

"That's because it was." He swept her hair back, lifting it off her neck. Finally, he sighed, long and soft in the quiet of the room. "Listen…" he murmured, his palm running up her back, his big hand spanning the entire width, nearly both her shoulder blades. "I'm sorry."

She blinked, looking up at him. "For what?"

"I've been overbearing the past few days. And I'm sorry. I swore I wouldn't be that kind of guy, and here I am."

She shook her head. "You weren't."

"I _was_."

She sighed. "You know my complaining is just _teasing_ you, right?"

He nodded. "I was controlling."

"You were _worried_. That's not a bad thing."

He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. "I want to go back in time and warn myself that the attack on the Tower is just a ruse. Then we wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be miserable."

She swallowed, setting her chin on his shoulder. "You can't. _Grandfather Paradox_."

He grunted irritably.

"Besides, I'm _not_ miserable."

His eyes tightened. "You lie for shit."

She smirked.

He swallowed, his voice softening further. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."

She nestled closer.

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I don't know what I would do."

She ran her hand down his front, her fingertip along the line separating his hard abdominals. "Jamie…"

He reached up blindly to halt her progress, his hand stilling hers before it could dip lower. "Darcy…"

"What's going to happen to me? I'm with _you_. _No_ _one_ gets the jump on the Winter Soldier."

His jaw clenched. "They already _have_. That's what got us into this mess in the first place."

" _Don't tell me you're blaming yourself_." It wasn't a question. It was a command.

He flinched. "No. It's just…" He sighed, deflating. "You're the most important thing in my life. I have to protect that. And I can't protect you if I don't know what's happening to you."

Her heart throbbed at this pronouncement. "You'll figure it out. You and Tony and Bruce. You'll figure it out. There's no rush. I'll survive. There's no pressure."

He threw up his other hand. "Of _course_ there's pressure, Darce! I can't—I _won't_ —keep watching you do this. Do you have _any_ idea how helpless it makes me _feel_?"

"Yes."

He looked at her in surprise and she watched realization dawn on his features. His mouth snapped shut.

They shared a long look.

He sighed, slumping further. "Of _course_ you do."

She recalled all the nights she'd woken to find him pacing, pacing, endlessly, until the tails of his memories swung back around and he was able to catch them, one by one, oftentimes not happy with what he found. The countless nights he ended up with his head in her lap, clutching her to him. The lump in her throat at his despairing expression, his haggard sleeplessness, his desperation. Quiet words of comfort that did little, she knew, to balm his hurt, even as they left her mouth. The hollow, suctioning worry in her chest, the ever-present ache in her throat each time he told her what the memory had revealed, the burning need to keep from crying in reaction, not in front of him, _never_ in front of him.

"I'm very familiar with the feeling. He and I are old friends now."

He shut his eyes for a moment, his profile dim in the low light. "Sorry. Again," he whispered.

She smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind an ear. "It's okay, baby."

He let out a heavy rush of air.

"I made a promise to myself about it, actually, just after…sharing a bed on a regular basis became a thing. When you'd wake up in the middle of the night, your brain all relaxed, and you'd remember something new. I made myself a promise."

He didn't turn to look at her. "What?"

She sighed. "That no matter how helpless I felt, no matter how much watching you hurt, hurt me, I would never let you see me cry over you."

Looking sad, he let his eyes drift shut again with a soft frown. "Damn it."

"That I would be strong for you. You'd made it through, on your own, and you didn't have to do that anymore, not alone. And I thought, long and hard, about it. After you kissed me, that day, in the lab, I thought about it. What it would mean to fall for you. What it could do to me. I thought, long and hard, over whether or not I wanted that, what I _did_ want. The risks. The knowledge that I could lose myself in you. Just what it would mean to tangle with a man without an identity."

His frown deepened.

"You spent a long time clutching at empty air, Jamie, a long time trying to reach the identity you'd had and trying to determine if it was still the one you wanted. But, in the end, I didn't care. I knew it was too late. I knew I was already in, too deep to get out, I probably lost the minute I sat down on that lab stool. And I was okay with that. I was ready for it."

She sighed again. "You know, it's funny. I didn't think I believed in that sort of thing."

The frown eased, just a little. "And now you do?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. I just know that I made a choice that day, to stick it out, and see you through, even if that was all I did. And then…"

He finally turned his head to look at her. "And then?"  
She pressed her palm to his sternum. "Guess I made the right one, huh?"

((()))

The heavy cloak of midnight was at its deepest just a few hours before dawn, and it never seemed more true to Natasha as it did when she was on a deep cover mission. On top of that, she had to be doubly sure to mask all emotions with this group. She had no doubt that, where some of her enemies would delight in playing with her, this group would merely do away, set a muzzle to her brow and leave a bullet lodged between her eyes, dump her at the side of the highway and be miles away before someone mistakenly stumbled across her rapidly stiffening body.

The only difference now was the responsibility she had to Darcy, to Bucky.

To Steve.

She couldn't be reckless like she'd been in the past.

She had to keep her focus clean and clear.

She was beyond exhausted fresh from their flight. Where usually they would've been on the road two hours ago, thanks to a mechanical and safety delay, she'd had an extra two hours to endure not only yet another obnoxious kid in the seat behind her, but two hours less of sleep, two hours less of focus, two hours of more stress than she felt she'd dealt with much in years.

This was her job. She did it well. But she had no illusions. She'd been leery of getting involved with Steve—let alone Darcy and her other friends—because she knew what it meant.

Something to lose.

Someone to fail.

Someone to answer to, something to come home to, someone to leave behind.

"Does it ever scare you?" Darcy had asked not long ago, sitting out on the balcony on Memorial Day, nursing a Corona while the guys finished watching the Dodgers slam—was it the Yankees? Whatever. Let them enjoy guy time for a few minutes.

"What?"

She gestured with the neck of the bottle through the balcony door, where Steve and Bucky were laughing and gesturing as they talked. "The way you feel about him."

Natasha watched them with a small smile. Such a warm and rare enough thing, the two guys in some form of harmony.

The way they used to be.

For some reason, where she'd been closed off before—and still was with most people—she found Darcy easy to talk to. "Yeah. It does. I avoided it for a long time because it's…it's a vulnerability. It's something to lose. It's leverage. I've…never gone into the job before carrying leverage for the bad guys." She smirked. "You?"

Darcy looked down at her beer bottle, idly picking at the label, now damp and softened in the afternoon sun. "Sometimes I feel like one word from him could shatter me."

Natasha nodded, her eyes following Steve's progress as he crossed their friends' suite toward the fridge, still talking, and reached in for another beer, tossing one clear across the room to his friend. "Mm."

Darcy shook her head and snorted humorlessly. "Y'know, when they took him—Lukin and his goons—I was terrified. But it took me a while to realize that I wasn't terrified of them killing him so much as them snapping him again. Making him into their puppet." She looked out over the city view around them, the skyscrapers glinting in the high sun. "He'd rather die than be their tool. I think what scared me the most was the possibility that when I'd meet him again, he wouldn't be… _him_. He'd be someone else. He wouldn't be mine anymore." She set the beer down. "I was scared they'd steal him away from me and I wouldn't know the magic spell to restore him."

Natasha nodded. "Seems like you had their number this time."

Another humorless snort and she watched them for a few moments. "Didn't really do anything. Talked his ear off for a few minutes, ran off to get back to Jane, and then…" She shrugged. "Then, I dunno. We talked for five minutes at Stark's wedding, and then he was asking me to lunch."

"How'd you do that, anyway? I think you're driving Foster up a wall, like it should be a simple math equation."

This drew a small smile from Darcy. "Yeah, Jane doesn't like him much." The smile fell and she returned to her beer bottle, the label loosening around the tempered glass. "She doesn't understand him. He just needed someone to understand him. A little careful patience. Someone who wouldn't flinch when he walked into a room."

Natasha threw back the rest of her own beer and set the bottle aside. "And now?"

Darcy chuckled. "Now I'm the one that needs the careful patience." She frowned, rolling her shoulders and wincing in what was obviously pain and stiffness from a recent episode.

Natasha nodded, watching Bucky where he sat on the couch, saying something to Steve. Steve laughed and said something in return, but right on cue, Bucky twisted to find them on the balcony, ever watchful. "He's got patience in abundance. I think you're good."

Darcy was clearly meeting his gaze, signaling to him silently with her eyes. "Doesn't always feel that way."

Natasha frowned, confused and unsure about where her friend was going with this. There were parts of her that were still feeling out precisely what sort of man Bucky Barnes was, but she trusted him, trusted his morality and honor, and she knew—in that sharply honed way she'd trained herself to use—that he was a kind soul, the last sort you'd suspect of anything untoward. He'd never lay a hand on his girl. "What do you mean?"

Darcy shook her head, realizing her words. "No, nothing like that. I just…I don't like that he has to…take care of me, now." She bit her lip. "I just want this to be over. He's been through so much— _too_ much for one lifetime—and worrying over me isn't something he should have to do."

She shrugged, searching for the right words. Darcy was always a tricky value to quantify. "He doesn't _have_ to; he just _does_ it."

Darcy eyed her shrewdly. " _Really_ , Romanoff? _You're_ getting philosophical on me? _You_?"

Natasha smirked, looking away. "Yeah. I know. Shut up."

"Roger's is rubbing off on you."

She snorted. "Yeah, no kidding." She shrugged. "Steve would say it's the same thing you do for him every day. It's just about reciprocation." She laughed. "He'd say ' _shut up, it's just love'_."

Darcy laughed, clearly feeling self-conscious, but her eyes drifted shut. "I'm just so fucking _tired_ , Natasha. And it's _nothing_ compared to him. How am I supposed to _handle_ that?"

"Hey."

They both looked up to find Bucky, half his body hanging out the sliding balcony door, leveraged by his metal hand, wrapped around the frame.

"You okay?" He didn't even glance at Natasha.

Darcy grinned at him, squinting in the sunlight. "Yeah, you dork."

An eyebrow went up. "You sure?"

Darcy rolled her eyes, laughing thinly. "Just bring me another beer, husband."

His eyes narrowed like he wanted to argue, but he let her obvious lie slide for the time being. "Hold on." He disappeared back inside.

Natasha gave her her own shrewd look. "Liar, liar."

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Not really. He can see through me like I'm not even there. He'll hen peck me later about it. Don't worry."

Somewhere below, a siren started up. A dog on the balcony of the next building over saw them and barked, his tail wagging.

"I guess I just…" Darcy blushed. "Sometimes it's…too much…what I feel for him. And that scares me. Because even though it _feels_ like too much…when push comes to shove, in our line of work, if it all falls apart and the bad guys come calling…is it _enough_? Will it be enough?" She shrugged. "I mean, it's not like it's a physical tether. And if it snaps, what…what am I supposed to _do_? You know?"

Natasha nodded, sobered by the thought.

"I don't like…feeling like I'm at my own mercy. Do you?"

She shook her head.

"I'm not even sure how much of me even _belongs_ to me anymore. And that's okay. I'm fine with that. But I was so…closed up, for _so_ long, I was all walled up. But then he…scaled it all. And, now I'm exposed. Now—"

"What do you do if he's ripped away and leaves a gaping hole in you?" she finally spoke up, filling the feeling in for her.

Darcy finally snapped to, looking up and meeting her eyes. "Exactly."

They stared at each other.

"I know the feeling," Natasha murmured.

"One Corona, with a lime."

They both jumped slightly at the sound of Bucky's return.

"You're so quiet, you're like a ninja, _Winter Soldier_ ," Darcy recovered, watching him cross to them, barefoot and quite silent.

But it wasn't quite enough; it was never going to be. His smirk was thin. "It's rude to kiss and tell. You two swapping notes?"

Natasha cocked her head and gave him a coquettish tilt of her mouth. "Wouldn't you like to know…?"

He chuckled, handing the beer down to Darcy. He was crafty; he held it just aloft enough for her to reach up high for it and upset her balance. When her hand closed around the barrel, he slid his metal hand around her wrist and set his middle finger against her pulse, holding her stunned gaze for just a moment longer than necessary.

"I'm _fine_ ," Darcy insisted, tugging on her arm, of course, to no avail.

He didn't budge. "Why don't you come in? The sun's coming down pretty hot."

Darcy sighed. "Jamie."

"And your pulse is uneven."

She challenged him with a raised eyebrow. " _Uneven_ or just fast, because I thought that was the new normal?"

He finally released her wrist. " _Uneven_. Erratic. And you're pale."

"You are," Natasha added.

Darcy gave her an uncharacteristically sharp look.

But Natasha shrugged, unperturbed. "Sorry."

She glared up at Bucky. "Are you trying to be funny?"

He winked down at her. "No. Just concerned. Gotta watch out for my girl."

She wilted at his likely unintentional sweetness. " _Fine_."

He offered his good hand.

But she waved him off, rolling to her knees before bouncing easily to her feet. "I'm perfectly capable of getting up, Jamie."

He smiled softly. "I know. The game's over. We can put on a movie. Didn't you want to show us _Jurassic Park_?"

Darcy brightened somewhat. "Oh, yeah! I forgot…"

Natasha followed them inside, eyeing the way he pressed his metal palm against the valley between her shoulder blades, no doubt feeling her heartbeat.

" _Jurassic Park_ first, then we skip two and three, because, _ew_ , then _Jurassic World_. You're gonna _love_ _Jurassic World_ …" She was already babbling excitedly. "You love your science and history, you're gonna _love_ this. You're like a sponge, you _geek_. It's got their creepiest dinosaur yet! T-Rex, plus _major_ creep factor—it actually has _arms_! Like, _real_ ones, not the goofy, transitional ones that are useless. Seriously, the _Indominous Rex_ gives me the _willies_ …"

Natasha had been sure, that afternoon, watching Darcy curl herself naturally into the Winter Soldier's side, that that wasn't the entirety of it. Steve would chuckle and say that the SHIELD shrinks would call it ' _dependency'_ and he'd probably say that they were hovering in that vicinity too. Natasha knew _she_ was, as much as she denied it. Was that natural, or dangerous? Was being so heavily wrapped up in your mate that you lost sight of where they ended and you began normal, an act of fate? Contrary to popular belief, Natasha had come to accept the idea of it— _fate_. The alternative hadn't worked out so well for her, after all, and as far as she remembered it, Clint's showing up had felt like too much of a coincidence to reconcile in her head, even at the time. So far, it seemed like a side-effect of their line of work.

When you could be uprooted at a moment's notice, when the next job could have the ground pulled out from under you…you clung—hard—to any bit of home you could find. You relied on it to feel some semblance of…whole.

The way the past year had been, Darcy was hanging on with everything she had.

Just like her digging had brought her to here—and _now_. In the dark interior of an expensive car, every nerve in her body screaming that hell was about to break loose.

 _Again_.

God, would it _ever_ end? Hadn't they all collectively earned at least a small piece of _happily ever after_? No, she _didn't_ want a minivan and a white picket fence, she _didn't_ want soccer practice and two-and-a-half kids—not that she was capable of producing them anyway—but she'd like just a little peace and quiet. She wanted just a small section of life with Steve without a world-ending threat getting in the way.

And she suspected Darcy of the same.

—"You ready for this?"

It was all she could do to hide her readiness to jump out of her skin as she was returned to the present, and turned to face the voice in the dark Jaguar. "Are _you_?"

Her new boss turned his mouth up in a shark-like grin. "I sure hope so."

Natasha looked away again, out the window, and swallowed thickly, wishing that sending a warning ahead would've been possible. All she could offer was the next best thing—herself. She hoped Bucky was ready, too. And she hoped Darcy was as close to one-hundred percent as she could manage. Her friend had turned out to be right after all.

There was blood in the water.

And the sharks were coming.

((()))

Darcy woke to a hazy, warm feeling hanging in her subconscious mind and blinked herself awake, tucked against Bucky's shoulder in a puddle of sunlight.

He shifted, his arm tightening around her waist to pull her more securely against him, his mouth finding her temple, then her ear, then her cheek.

She sighed out a sleepy laugh, grasping at alertness with clumsy fingers while he rained his affection on her. "Jamie…" she groaned.

His only answer was a soft laugh and another kiss pressed to her jaw line, his mouth lingering on the soft underside of her chin and trailing down her throat, distracted by the hollow shape between her collar bones.

"You're up early," she murmured, struggling to catch up.

"Mm," he hummed, mouth trailing up again to land on her opposite cheek. "I'm gonna get in a quick swim. 'Kay?"

Frowning, she paused his retreat with a hand around his good wrist. "No way, mister." Yanking, she was rewarded when he acquiesced and pressed his weight down, covering one half of her, his heavy left arm thrown across her pillow.

"Yes." He pressed his mouth to her jaw.

"Nope." She slid her hands up his naked back and traced the mass of scar tissue around his left shoulder. "You're supposed to stay here and ravish me." She finally found his mouth and they shared a sweet kiss.

His smile shortened the affection. " _Oh_?"

She nodded, leaning to expose her throat to his mouth, and she shivered as he pressed a line of tender little kisses down to her pulse and back up. "Mm-hmm."

He pressed his lips back to hers, punctuating the action with words, covering her face in tiny little pecks as she squirmed and laughed, his hair tickling her cheeks. "It's just—a quick—early morning—swim. I'll—be—right back." And he broke free of her weak grip, slipping away with a smile and a wink as he grabbed his trunks and t-shirt from the bathroom, _totally_ naked and totally _delicious_. "Then I'm all yours. Promise."

She harrumphed her lost battle, slumping back on the bed and calling out grumpily to him. "You have a fantastic ass!"

"I know!" The deck door slid shut and he was gone.

She grumbled again, rolling her eyes as she hauled herself up. "Stupid super soldier serum." She pulled on her robe and cinched the tie over her naked skin. "He gets the good stuff and I get the half-assed _crap_. Thanks, _HYDRA_." She shuffled out to the kitchen, running her fingers through her hair and yawning as she finally reached the coffee maker. She flicked the switch and wandered around the counter, spying her Starkphone's flashing indicator where she'd left the device on the laminate the previous night. Missed call. Tony's number.

Smiling, she swiped, tapped, and held it up to her ear, waiting as the tone sounded.

"Hey, Short Stack!" he answered quickly, decidedly cheerful at taking her call.

"Hey, Boss Man!" she returned, finally catching sight of her significant other, his long, lean form lapping a hundred meters, only to turn around and do it again. Her mouth dropped open at his perfectly executed underwater turn. Who _was_ he—Michael _Phelps_?!

"How's my favorite hacker-slash-Super-Soldier-wrangler?"

She rolled her eyes—both at Bucky's ridiculous acrobatics and Tony's words—and sighed. "I don't _wrangle_ him, Tony."

Something clanked in the background. "Eeeehhh…you kinda do."

She sighed, smirking as she turned back to the kitchen, going back around the counter and checking the coffee. Almost done. "Well, then I'm an epic fail. He just ditched for a morning swim. He's more stubborn than I am."

Tony chuckled. "Yeah, he is. That's saying something."

She laughed, opening the fridge and pulling out her creamer. "True." She bumped it shut with her hip and went about her morning routine. "How are things? Doesn't sound like you made anything go ' _boom'_ yet."

Tony sighed. "Boring. When you coming back?"

She snorted. "You shoved us out the door, Stark. You've still got a week to get things done before I'm in your hair again."

He grumbled under his breath. "You _mother_ …" Another clank. "Yeah, well, I was so bored, I finally decided to take no quarter with _The Drone_. He is no more."

She stirred her coffee, replaced the creamer and went back to the window. "Should I play _Taps_?"

"This little bastard is the one that's keeping all the others from working properly. He's gonna give up the ghost if I die trying…"

Bucky made another turn, his body moving effortlessly. He truly was a machine. He'd been tailor-made, and that was on top of the physical shape he'd been in when he'd enlisted. He'd been frozen. Molded. Pressed into obedience. He moved like it. No matter how free he was, it was too late to change that. He moved like the perfect, effortlessly efficient tool he'd been forged into. Her own serum had done things to her, things she couldn't attribute to stress or her training schedule. She was tighter in areas that had been just a little soft before. She was glad to be rid of her glasses, especially at night in the dark, and he was sleeping beside her, so peaceful and still. Everything in her seemed to be rushing along, efficient and easy. Or, at least, easier than before.

But the Winter Soldier.

He was _beautiful_. He was _stunning_. He truly was flawless.

And still so broken.

Stubbornly defiant.

"How does someone have that much will?" she murmured, not even realizing she spoke out loud. "I'd fall apart."

"I dunno, kiddo. That's what makes him such an anomaly. I _barely_ got outta that desert with my sanity—and that was a _fraction_ of the time he spent with HYDRA. Be worse if he knew what was happening every time they woke him up."

They'd talked about this, once or twice. She couldn't bear to ask him. Not yet. It still felt too fresh. He was so very close to being a normal guy now, she didn't dare shatter it with too many questions, _all the time_. It still felt too tenuous.

"He did."

Silence. The silence on the other end of the line was long and deafening.

Blinking, she caught herself up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to…crash the party."

For another long moment, Tony was silent. "…I thought…he said it had been like waking up from a…long nightmare?"  
"In the end, it was. But he said there were times he was a passenger in his own head. Other times, they'd burn him out so thoroughly, he'd come to and wonder what he'd done this time. Blank space. Lost time. Before they put him back under." The look on his face—first mournful and fearful, then resigned—flashed through her mind again, the stolen footage she'd hacked of him daring to question Pierce nearly two years ago in that bank vault.

She'd regretting all her hacking skills instantly. The copy of Karpov's notes she'd saved on her drive, his neat scribbles, the list of trigger words she'd memorized, just in case his past came back to bite them in the ass, so she'd know what they were about to get into.

Longing.

Rusted.

Seventeen.

Daybreak.

Furnace.

Nine.

Benign.

Homecoming.

One.

Freight car.

She listed them off in her head, unseeing as she watched him, something in her chest seizing even now, a chill down her spine as she stood in the sunlight at the not-rightness of it. She'd spent hours, lying beside him those first few nights together, going over and over them in her head, trying to find reason in the cryptic code, maybe something to unspool his captive memories and retool his ability to cope with what he'd done.

Been _made_ to do.

" _Jesus_ …" Tony murmured.

He'd been born in 19 _17_ , that one was obvious. _Daybreak_. They'd found him at dawn. He said he had hazy memories of pale dawn light tangled somewhere amongst the bloody snow and the garbled Russian.

Perhaps _homecoming_ referred to the end of the War? The homecoming he wouldn't get.

 _One_. Well. Regardless of HYDRA's other… _experiments_ …he'd been alone. Had there been _nine_ others? She didn't know the exact number.

 _Freight car_.

'Freight car' turned the blood in her veins to ice. Invoking the reminder of what had happened to him, what had put him in their path and damned his fate and had bound him to them with fear and residual shock.

It curled her lip even now.

She shook her head loose and took a breath, swallowing back her anger yet again, pushing it— _hard_ —from her mind. "Anyway. How's everyone?"

It took him a moment to turn it around. "Uh…um, fine. Everyone's fine. Pepper's about ready to kill me. Steve's chewing all his fingernails off because Romanoff took off, Hill and Wilson are ready to murder each other in cold blood. Put down a swarm of eel bots the other day—some joke from some young punk techie, wanted to test his product on my suit. Other than that—we're all good here."

She stared unseeingly out the window for a moment more, unsure where to even start with his paragraph of near-nonsense. It took her a moment of assuredness that her lack of understanding was less due to her muddled thoughts and more to his rambled list of _crazy_. "Uh. Okay."

"So, yeah. That's that."

Squinting in thought, she rubbed a hand over her tired eyes. After their interlude the night before, she'd had a hard time falling asleep— _again_ —instead, laying there, listening to the way the sound of Bucky's peaceful, even breathing accompanied the crashing of low tide. She hadn't minded so much; it had relaxed her.

She minded more now as she sifted through and ultimately picked a single question from her growing pile. "Why, exactly, did Natasha take off?"

Another clanking noise, followed by the rapid clicking of a socket wrench. "Something about a Red Room operative. You can imagine she wanted to get the jump on him."

The monkey on her friend's back. "Yeah. Uh, definitely."

"How's the coast?"

Taking a sip of coffee, she nodded, breathing deeply as her eyes found Bucky again, moving fluidly through the water. Wanda had been right—he was like a touchstone. "Nice. Good." She was relieved to have seemingly gotten back to their former rhythm, in tune with each other and nothing between.

"Better than the last time we talked?"

She sighed, pretty sure he didn't want a rundown of the previous night's activities. "Yeah."

"Any more episodes?"

"Why you wanna know, Stark? So you can go tattle on me to Bruce?"

"Mmm _maybe_."

"You're shameless."

"That's me. Totally without pride."

"A couple, yeah."

A short pause. "Bad?"

"Same."

"Not worse?"

She snorted. "Not so far."

"The pain patches didn't work?"

"Only with the after effects. Not with the actual episode."

"And you're not being a stubborn pain in the ass, right?"

"Love you, too, Tony," she drawled, rolling her eyes and sipping again from her mug, letting the hot hazelnut sweet slither down her throat.

"You're letting him take the reins?"

She rolled her eyes again. " _Ugh_."

He sighed. "Listen, I know this sounds stupid, and un- _Me_ -ish, and I know you're _more_ than capable. I just have to tell you how it's looked to _me_. And it's looked like your resistance is wearing you down. That's the only reason I said anything. You think I always like letting Pep take over? No. I _hate_ it, but sometimes it's necessary. That's not who I am. But it feels better, _later_ , if I do. Make sense?"

She sighed again. "Yeah. I know."

"Listen, I'm gonna go, okay? I've gotta eat or Pep will _seriously_ kill me. Talk to you later?"

Warmth bloomed in her chest, and she didn't think it was just the coffee. "Sure."

"See ya, kiddo."

"Bye, Boss Man." She tapped her screen and set the phone back on the counter, taking her coffee back to the sliding screen door.

((()))

He was worried about Darcy.

He was also worried about _worrying_ _about Darcy_ , because _Darcy_ would tell him to shut up—likely with lots of gesturing and colorful vocabulary.

But she still wasn't herself—that was to say, she wasn't anywhere near the bubbling, silly, vivacious thing that had planted herself across from him at a lab table over a year ago looking like a pinup that had managed to peel herself off the nose of a fighter plane.

Which wasn't a bad thing, of course. It did nothing to alter his attraction or his affections. Nothing could do that.

But it… _worried_ him.

It seemed plain to him now that her serum was slowly leaching all the color out of her. True, it had been clear quite early that it was having more negative effects on her body than positive ones. But he was hoping, then, that the tide would turn.

And he was becoming more and more suspicious that it wouldn't. Ever.

And it broke his heart that she would have to live this way for the rest of her life—the rest of her strangely iron-clad life. Her serum still made her invulnerable to mortal harms—illness and disease—and while that also caused relief, it also meant that she had a longer lifespan with which to deal with these awful side-effects.

But his anger with HYDRA was old and stale, and so all he could do was push himself, swim a little harder, breathe a little deeper, and hope it would go away.

There was nothing he could do.

The helplessness was slowly breaking him apart.

It was only fair, he supposed.

Darcy had said on more than one occasion that watching him suffer through the worst of it all last year had broken her into tiny little pieces.

But she'd still managed to pick up, every single time he called, even at two AM, and listen while he breathed.

And even without all that, without the idea of reciprocation, he would deal with it—because _that was what you did_. He'd made her a promise, a vow. A vow was stronger than a promise, right?

You stood by each other. Where he came from, that was what a man did.

You held each other together.

Even when it hurt you almost as much as it hurt them.

He loved her.

He still marveled at the fact that he had the ability left in him.

But he loved her, with _everything_ he had.

Watching her— _feeling_ her—suffer was an aching, yearning sort of pain that he was still trying to reconcile.

The agony evident in her face when her serum reared its ugly head made him want to claw at his own chest, if only to pull out his heart and toss it away. Maybe that would relieve the awful ache of her suffering.

And he could do absolutely _nothing_ —nothing but wrap his arms around her and hold her while she cried.

God, a pain so bad you couldn't help but cry, he hadn't felt anything like that in so long he could barely remember it anymore. The fact that Darcy—tough as nails, full of moxie, and strong enough to hide her pain and fear from most people around her—was brought to tears told him just how bad it was.

It was engrained in him— _deep_ —to take care of the people around him. It always had been. The need to take care of Steve, of Becca, had been a desperate pull for decades, and his inability to do so now, for Darcy—when it _seriously_ counted—was making him itch.

He was a _fixer_ ; always had been.

At the diner, he'd constantly helped out the gals at the counter if they were having a rough time of things lately. He'd gotten Stevie out of scrape after scrape, gone to the chemist at all hours for medicine so often he'd gotten to know the fellow quite well (he may or may not have romanced the bloke's daughter for a very short time). He'd looked after Becca like she was his own. He'd worked on countless cars at the shop down the street to get them running right again, coming home late with his hands full of grease to find Stevie in an asthma attack or a crying Becca on their doorstep. Sometimes both.

 _He'd fixed it all_.

Only to break it all over again—only this time he used ammunition more than anything else.

Only now he couldn't fix _Darcy_. He couldn't fix this. He was powerless, his hands were empty, and he was floundering around, trying to do what he could to reassure her that it would be okay even as he knew it was likely a total fucking, bald-faced lie.

Tony had called that a strength, the ability to lie like that to someone you loved, just to provide a moment's hollow comfort.

So many men, he'd said, nowadays, would just throw in the towel and ditch, deem it not worth the effort and allow the pressure to snap them in half.

He'd endured worse. A lot worse. He could endure this.

But it _hurt_.

More than anything he'd ever felt before.

((()))

There was a perfect breeze coming in now, and she slid the door open, stepping outside onto the deck and sighing as it washed over her.

Maybe she'd really been tense and worried over nothing. After all, it was only a matter of time until her episodes set her back. Her body didn't care where they were; it was going to react according to its own convoluted schedule, much as they'd failed to figure out exactly what that was.

And Tony was right. She could only hold out for so long. Not only was her need to keep from stressing him unduly stressing her out further, but it likely wasn't helping him any more than her condition in general was.

She would just have to do something she'd been told a few times but—given her unconventional upbringing—she found herself loath to do.

She supposed she just had to have faith.

Faith in what, she wasn't sure.

Faith in Jamie.

There.

She could do that.

Easy.

A thump drew her out of her head and she looked around, through the sliding door. Nothing seemed amiss, she noted with a quizzical frown. She glanced around to find Bucky still doing laps, likely working off that pent-up energy the serum provided—at least for him and Steve. She yawned, noting the lack of such an effect in her so far. In fact, it seemed just the opposite.

Another thump caused her to turn and give the interior of the house an even more thorough look, and she stepped closer to the sliding screen upon a third such noise, then slid it open and stepped through on a fourth. "Deb?" she called out, looking for the sixty-something blond that Tony employed to keep the property tidy. "You're a little early…" She usually didn't show up until after lunch, and she always rang the bell twice before she unlocked the door with her own key.

Another odd noise, this one sharper and more succinct—a car door slamming, rapidly followed by another, then a third, and a forth.

Scowling at the interruption on their private drive, she drew her robe tighter around her and moved toward the front door.

Tires on gravel, the sound softening as what appeared to be a second car—a sleek, black, expensive Jaguar F-Type Coupe that's she'd drooled over in TV spots—pulled up the drive and parked beside the first, a slightly more demure, but no less expensive BMW M3.

She flicked the lock on the screen door, acutely aware that she was naked under her robe and recalled her cooling coffee, left on the deck. " _Hey_! This is private property, people! What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing? You _lost_?" she snapped, her hackles rising automatically as she sifted through all SHIELD's active enemies, bile rising up the back of her throat.

A familiar figure unfurled from the back of the Jag, a smile on his narrow, calculating face. "Oh, I'm very aware, Ms. Lewis." He frowned mockingly as he strode up to the door and set his hand to the handle. "May I call you that, or is it officially something else, now?"

She stared at his face, her mind sticking on all the filing she'd done for Tony, placing him and matching him to his name.

But that…that didn't make any sense, no matter how ridiculous their past experiences had been, what they'd taught her.

That wasn't… _possible_ …

She swallowed, stepping back from the door automatically, her heart breaking into a rapid gallop. "You…" She took a breath, her eyes narrowing. "You do know who owns this place, _right_? I mean, since you're supposed to be some sort of fucking genius, right, buddy? _One_ call, and he's out here in his latest suit—and it's a _doozy_."

He merely smiled—that same, sharp look—and yanked the door open, stepping inside as it hung off a hinge. "Oh, sweetie. I'm counting on that. That's part of the reason I'm here." He shrugged as he approached her, his face set and eerily intent. "That, and of course, to retrieve my little unfinished experiment."

"What…?"

But the rest of her query was lost as she rapidly stepped backward in the foolish hopes she could delay him while she screamed for Bucky, fully aware that even her experienced level of training would not be enough to defend herself—even if he was alone, which he clearly _wasn't_.

She didn't get a chance, anyway.

With a smile, he drew a long, vicious looking needle from his Ralph Lauren coat pocket and—grabbing her roughly by the shoulder and yanking her close—emptied it into her neck.

She dug her nails into her consciousness, desperate to stay upright. But it was no use. She went limp.

Everything clouded over until the gray was so thick it turned to black.

((()))

" _Sir, I'm getting an alarm at the Honolulu property_ ," JARVIS said in his calm voice, momentarily interrupting the blaring Foo Fighters in Tony's lab.

He didn't even look up from Drone 13. "There a black car?"

JARVIS paused. " _Affirmative_."

He waved a hand over his shoulder, dismissing the AI. "That's just Deb. She stops by to clean. She probably forgot to turn off the silent alarm. The kids must be out. I'll check the cameras later."

The digital butler restored Dave Grohl's growling voice. " _Of course, Sir_."


	6. Chapter 6: I'm Not Okay (I Promise)

**Thanks so much for the positive feedback, you guys! Seriously, you guys are the definition of awesome! So I've finally gotten back into the groove of this plotline and I know exactly where I'm going. I'd like to see if I can rush this out before Christmas, as I've got a really killer idea for the holiday that I'd really, really like to do!**

 **Hopefully this chapter fills in some gaps that some of you are annoyed over. Sorry for the delay, but I'm all about delayed gratification and half the fun is the suspense and the guessing, right? I mean, half the fun of all these Marvel movies is spending the wait time between them trying to figure out what direction we all think they're going next, right? The actual movies are only half the fun...**

 **Anyhoo, the villain is officially revealed below. Hopefully (fingers crossed) no one is epically disappointed. Not all is revealed, of course (we're still getting to that) but we'll be picking up steam from here on out. Also, I hope you guys are cool with all these flashbacks. It'll be interesting to see if anyone can keep track what's real and what's memory, which is a theme I wanted to play with a little bit.**

 **So I hope you guys enjoy. The chapter title is taken from the My Chemical Romance song of the same name. As always, I don't own anything Marvel, I just like to have fun with it rather than sit on my hands between movies.**

 **Again-you guys have any prompts? You can shoot me a message or stick it in the comment section and hopefully I'll be able to track it...**

 **Enjoy! Let me know what you think! I love hearing from you all!**

 **3 Sarah**

 **((()))**

"What…?"

But the rest of her query was lost as she rapidly stepped backward in the foolish hopes she could delay him while she screamed for Bucky, fully aware that even her experienced level of training would not be enough to defend herself—even if he was alone, which he clearly _wasn't_.

She didn't get a chance, anyway.

With a smile, he drew a long, vicious looking needle from his Ralph Lauren coat pocket and—grabbing her roughly by the shoulder and yanking her close—emptied it into her neck.

She dug her nails into her consciousness, desperate to stay upright. But it was no use. She went limp.

Everything clouded over until the gray was so thick it turned to black.

((()))

" _Sir, I'm getting an alarm at the Honolulu property_ ," JARVIS said in his calm voice, momentarily interrupting the blaring Foo Fighters in Tony's lab.

He didn't even look up from Drone 13. "There a black car?"

JARVIS paused. " _Affirmative_."

He waved a hand over his shoulder, dismissing the AI. "That's just Deb. She stops by to clean. She probably forgot to turn off the silent alarm. The kids must be out. I'll check the cameras later."

The digital butler restored Dave Grohl's growling voice. " _Of course, Sir_."

((()))

Heaving a deep sigh, Bucky rose from the water and shook himself out, sweeping his hair out of his face as he glanced up at the house.

He froze in his tracks as his eyes swept first over the small group of people—strangers—in the living room, then the two sleek, European and British imports parked at the front of the house.

He searched frantically for Darcy, his heart beginning a harsh sprint in his chest when he found she was nowhere to be seen.

He ran for shore, faster than the average human but still not fast enough for his liking, finally reaching dry sand, where he threw on his t-shirt.

If Darcy had been conscious, she would've been curious to identify the reason for the strange, thumping noises she'd heard as the Jaguar had pulled up to the house.

As Bucky approached, there was a high-pitched whine that reached his sensitive ears just a little too late for him to identify as he tripped an invisible barrier and was thrown back across the beach, unconscious.

((()))

She came around slowly. The sludge was much thicker than the last time she'd been under, which—considering it was just after she'd been stabbed nearly to death—was saying something. Her eyelids were heavy and sluggish and she kept having the odd sensation of pulling them half open to obscured vision before they'd fall rebelliously shut again.

Head lolling, she clawed toward consciousness desperately, a voice at the back of her mind imploring her to wake up. It grew in volume until it was nearly shouting at her, and it sounded suspiciously like her Jamie.

But when she finally pulled herself to consciousness, she found he wasn't there. She studied the scorched and melted handle on the ruined screen door, still hanging by one sad looking hinge.

There was only one man in the room, and he was grinning like the proverbial shark. "Well, hi, there," Aldrich Killian greeted her casually, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter.

With a start, she came to full awareness only to realize that she was tied down like she was in a bad movie, her wrists secured to the arm of one of the kitchen chairs, and her ankles to the legs. She groaned, then leveled her gaze upward, glaring through her lashes and long hair at her captor with all the malice she could muster.

But he only smiled again, all casual, like they were just two old friends, playing catch up. "Hi." He gestured. "Yeah, sorry about the binding. We've got to build up a center of trust, you know?"

She tried to steady her rapid heart, willing it to slow and soften. The last thing she wanted was an episode. And she could practically hear Tony screaming in horror in her head. This was the man that was responsible for nearly killing Pepper, yanking her would-be father's world down around him in heat and flame. "You're supposed to be _dead_ , remember?" she drawled.

He cocked his head mockingly, revealing the burn scars along along one side of his face, his shaggy hair helping to obscure it slightly. "Are you sure?" He made a show of checking his pulse.

She narrowed her eyes as though in consideration. "… _Yyeeah_ …pretty sure."

He shrugged, smirking cutely. "Oops."

She clenched her jaw shut.

A man all in black came in, looking like he was on a mission, all the way down to his thick combat boots. "Perimeter secure, Sir," he reported.

Killian turned his head but didn't deign to make eye contact with his underling and Darcy saw that his one ear was malformed, like it had been melted, and was only half familiar looking. "And the Soldier?"

"The TMS blast took him out. Erwin was right—whatever they did to his subconscious made him vulnerable—at the very least, it'll take the technology of the arm a while to reboot."

Killian scowled. "How long?"

"It'll hold. Erwin is sure of it. At the very least, that arm will be useless. Erwin set up the low-range EMPs lining the perimeter. He'll be dead in the water."

Darcy couldn't help it; whatever drug he'd given her was making it less than easy to control her filter. She burst out laughing, vaguely aware that she sounded hysterical. "You did him a _favor_ —he _hates_ that thing!"

Killian turned his gaze on her, but it was only mildly annoyed. "Fine. Keep an eye out."

The underling smirked. "Sir, even the Winter Soldier can't get past this technology. It's iron clad."

Aldrich turned, this time leveling him with a hard stare. "Haven't you been paying attention? You underestimate him, he only finds your weakness and _snaps your neck_. He's been doing this a _little_ longer than you. Keep. An eye out. Got it?"

The soldier in black slunk off, back through the kitchen.

The scientist turned back to her. "You feeling okay?"

She let her head tip back. "Could use a little coffee."

He clucked his tongue. "Oh, no. We need you good and malleable."

She raised a brow, her brain finally beginning to turn over all the potential options. "What for, I wonder?" She was still too groggy for fear, a separate part of her aware that Jamie was gone.

He smiled, a slow, sly 'cat that ate the canary' grin. "Later. Don't you worry."

She smirked back. "He'll remove your spine from your body. You know that, right? When he finds his way in here, it's gonna be like that scene from last season of _Game of Thrones_ , dude."

But Aldrich shrugged, approaching her again, pulling out another nasty looking needle. "By the time he does, it'll be far too late." He tested the plunger, a tiny squirt of clear fluid spraying out. "Now. With this, you should be nice and relaxed for what we have planned."

And then the cloud cover was back.

 _Darce._

She jerked, the pain blossoming again behind her closed lids.

 _Darcy._ But Bucky was whispering to her, her Bucky, her Jamie. _Sweetheart._

But the pain, the pain was ratcheting—God, how did it get so bad so fast? When had this devolved into torture?!

 _Darcy…_

She scowled, screwing her eyes more tightly shut.

 _Darcy, baby, you've gotta be strong for me, now, okay?_

A small moan of suffering slipped out before she could clamp it back down again.

 _Please, Darce? You've gotta be tough for me, now. I need you to be tough. You can't give in. You hear me?_

Biting down hard on her lip against the ache, she shook her head vigorously in protest. "I can't. I can't. It's too much. I can't do this anymore, Jamie…"

 _I know. I know it's hard. But you've gotta find a way this time, Solnishka. Dig deep. I'll be there as soon as I can. Just hold on…_

"Is it working?"

"…I'm not sure yet. Give it a minute."

 _Just hold on…hold on to me. You're strong. Be strong._

" _Is it working_?!"

 _Hold on…_

She jerked awake, her eyes snapping open against the bright light of midday, but she didn't see any of it. She was blinded by the intense pain of her body—her entire body—and she struggled against the chair she was still confined to.

" _Whoa_." Killian jerked back, staring at her approvingly, a small smile in place. "There's our answer."

The small woman at his side smiled. "Told you. Just a couple cc's of my stimulant mix wakes her right up." She gestured. "You wanted a catalyst to study her bouts with the new serum—here you go."

Aldrich grinned. "You were going to draw blood. Go to it. I want answers, sooner rather than later."

The pain was so intense that Darcy blacked out again as the woman bent over her.

((()))

Bucky woke in the surf, water lapping at his shoulders where he lay in the wet sand. Horrible realization came crashing in within seconds, but it nearly paled in comparison to the immediate feeling that something in him was very… _not right_.

Images began flooding him at light speed, flashing in his mind's eye quicker than he could process.

Steve.

Becca.

His father and that horrible row they'd had.

His time in the trenches.

Italy.

Switzerland.

Everything— _everything_ that had been missing from his jumbled mind—came flooding in like light into an oculus, expanding to allow a higher volume of passage.

He struggled to his hands and knees, gasping with the effort, his left arm heavy and locked, the mechanism that kept it running having failed.

This was nothing new. It had happened from time to time.

Snarling, he swung his arm in a wide arc, pulling his shoulder in a rapid circle to encourage a reboot.

Nothing happened. It was like a car without steering assist.

" _Ugh_ ," he sighed. "Son of a bitch…" He'd have to handle it without. He rolled his eyes and struggled to kneeling, dizzy as more images and thoughts rammed his brain, too many to handle all at once. They flew before his mind's eye in a rapid, Technicolor blur.

Becca, crying.

Steve, bleeding.

Maria Stark… _begging for mercy_.

Darcy, _screaming_.

He forced his head up to get a look at the house in the evening's dampening light.

Another scream pierced the air, and he realized that part wasn't in his head.

Whatever force field they'd set up, he'd tripped it, and whatever signal it was, it had done a hell of a lot more than knock him out.

It had _knocked things loose_.

He slumped back to the sand, exhausted and spent just from struggling to move, dizzy, his ears ringing.

 _Darcy_. He couldn't even stand.

Darcy was hopefully strong enough to outlast him.

Darkness claimed him again.

((()))

Tony blinked into the darkness of his lab, so familiar when the lights were on, but somehow eerie and sinister now, at three in the morning.

Frowning, he reached over and hit the light switch.

He stared around for a long moment, looking for something— _anything_ —that was out of place. Or, at least, more out of place than usual for him.

Nothing.

 _Everything_ was normal.

Socket wrench.

Screw driver.

The stupid, fucking _drone from hell_ , all in pieces, some strewn on the floor, the motor he'd been working on also in pieces on the steel table.

His computer, screen dark, indicator light blinking as it slept in hibernation mode.

No alarms.

No flashing lights.

No indications from JARVIS.

 _Nothing_.

Just the dark, quiet lab, seemingly peaceful and waiting patiently for him to return to it, his home away from home, a few dozen floors up.

Nothing seemed… _at all_ wrong.

He chewed on his lip.

Then _why_ was he getting that feeling at the back of his throat, why were the hairs on the back of his neck prickling and standing on end, even as he stood there in the middle of the ordered and organized room?

He slowly entered, pacing deliberately between this table, then that one, looking for more details.

Maybe something he'd left behind?

Something of Pepper's he'd meant to take up?

Had the kid left something behind?

The kid.

He _really_ needed to call her something else, at least in his mind.

Nothing else felt right, though. Nothing else sounded right in his head, nothing else fit her. The hefty weight of 'kid' felt full, rounded, and solid to him, a good balance struck between the image of Darcy and the familiar tag.

Like she was his.

He might as well admit to _himself_ , even if it wasn't out loud.

He'd never felt inclined to have children of his own. After all, he practically was one himself, and not nearly responsible enough to raise a small human alone. Pepper hadn't particularly cared after they got together, and claimed that he was enough of one for her.

But _Darcy_.

Darcy was a heavy weight in his mind. She struck some chord in him and echoed, causing a, frankly, disturbing ripple effect that he was still shrugging into, the warmth of someone new to worry about.

The daughter he'd never had.

A clever, whip-smart, witty little thing that only he could produce, someone to keep up with him, his rapid fire, his relentlessness, his _crazy_.

He knew, after all, how he was, what he was like. He wasn't so obtuse and distracted, wasn't so selfish that he didn't know how he seemed to other people. He was usually just too selfish to rein it in.

But Darcy had rolled right with it, didn't bat an eye, kept him in line, kept him centered, kept his mess organized, kept him in coffee, made sure he ate—after all, she'd pulled Foster out of her Thor-less funk the year prior—and she laughed at his jokes on top of it all.

She kept him on his toes.

The girl was tough, had a thick hide, and he knew—even though she hadn't told anyone, presumably aside from Barnes—that it was likely due to her shit upbringing. Maybe that was why they gelled so well—Tony had had a shit upbringing, too, a loveless family.

Perhaps that accounted for her staunch loyalty for the people in her life.

Certainly, Tony hadn't expected her to latch onto _Bucky_ , of all people, and he was pretty sure _Bucky_ hadn't expected it either.

But Darcy was funny that way.

She was independent and prone to flights of unattached fancy.

But she was also very warm and nurturing.

Where she saw a need, she was the first to: a) notice; and b) do something about it.

So, likely, while everyone was taking turns getting a glimpse of their newly acquired Soviet assassin like he was an _animal at the zoo_ , Darcy had been wondering idly if he didn't simply want some sort of companionship after so long alone, some compassion, having just realized what he'd done.

For all that Tony could tell, she'd been the only one.

Steve had been far too involved to even surf that train of thought, too tied up in making sure his best friend was safe and was still, of course, said best friend. The state of Bucky's mental well-being would've been lower on the list.

And no matter Steve's honorable—always so _damn honorable_ —intentions, Darcy alone had managed to un-tether the killer from his former noose.

It held him a little in awe, truthfully.

Darcy had come to them as an accessory of the astrophysicist's, like a tagalong in a sidecar, a gopher. But, never one to sit still for long, she'd quickly realized everyone else's spheres of lack and gone about fixing things like a little Roomba, skittering about underfoot without anyone noticing she was there until things just sort of…settled in place.

Suddenly, Steve and Nat were flirting, _Hill and Wilson_ were flirting, the common room was clean and tidy, there were freshly baked goods, like, _everywhere_ , and they had a new, fancy, _expensive-ass_ coffee machine in just about every majorly used room.

Of course, it was all on the Stark company card, but he could hardly complain, when she made a blueberry coffee cake _that_ mouthwatering.

Jane was working.

Thor was in check.

Bruce was suddenly doing _yoga_.

Pepper was going _out_ for lunch.

Natasha wasn't quite so broody.

Clint was around more, and with his kids in tow.

Maria was _giggling_.

Sam was acting liaison to their Veterans' Affairs network.

Steve was getting laid regularly and had relaxed a bit, dabbling in pop culture.

And the Winter Soldier was smiling.

The _Winter Soldier_.

 _Smiling_.

And _laughing_.

Blinking, he sat heavily down in his desk chair.

That damn girl had…that damn girl had gone and repaired all the little leaks that had appeared in the Tower and everything associated with it that had gone just slightly wibbly in the past few restless, chaotic years.

"I'm gonna have to give her a raise," he muttered out loud to himself.

Of course, somewhere along the way, she had squirmed into a tiny little cavity in his heart, the microscopic, defensive little chamber he reserved solely for those truly closest to him.

Pepper.

Rhodey.

Happy.

And now, Darcy.

She was a genius in her own right, not even taking into account her hacking skills and her Master's in Political Science.

"I'm _really_ gonna have to give her a raise." When she got back, of course. Maybe he'd throw her a little private party, something to make up for the huge engagement bash he'd been forced into. He still felt guilty about that, not that he'd had much choice. Pepper had backed him into a corner.

If _she comes back_ …a tiny little voice said at the back of his mind.

He scowled, pulling himself up out of the chair.

There was no reason to believe something would happen to them. They were at _his_ place, full of security measures, he was the fucking _Winter Soldier_ , and Pepper would tell him to shut up and stop babbling like an idiot.

If he could just convince his mind of that so it would let him _sleep_.

Sighing heavily again, he shut off the lights, went out into the hall and got into the elevator, JARVIS automatically taking him up to his quarters.

By the time he'd reached their bedroom, black as pitch from the shading on the windows, he was fairly certain he wasn't about to get back to sleep.

He slid carefully in beside his wife and rearranged the blankets.

Pepper stirred. "Tony…?"

He was silent; usually if he didn't reply, she fell right back under again.

"Tony?" she repeated, turning over into him.

He wrapped his arms around her. "Yeah, Pep?"

"Don't be all casual," she murmured, yawning. "You disappeared. Where'd you go?" She sighed sleepily. "It's late. Even for you."

He smirked. " _Ha-ha_. I was down in the lab."

She snuggled in against him. "Why?"

He took a deep breath, reaching up to brush a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Can't sleep. Restless."

"Why?" She already sounded like she was half asleep.

He hesitated, his heart inexplicably clenching. "…Can't shake this feeling."

She snuffled against his well-worn t-shirt. "They're _fine_ , Tony. What's going to happen to them in _Hawaii_?"

He huffed out a long, loud sigh. "Seriously? What—just 'cause it's pretty there, nothing bad ever happens. Haven't you ever seen _Magnum PI_?!" He huffed, deflating. "No, I…I know. I…I know."

A smile, then, in her sleepy voice. "If you could adopt that girl, you would…"

He exhaled a silent laugh. "…Yeah. Probably. She comes with add-ons, though."

"Mm," she hummed. "They make a good pair. She loosens him up and he weighs her down."

"Mm."

"It's sweet."

"It's just that she's right: she's got a target on her back now, Pep. And Buck is _freakishly_ capable. I mean, he's _scary_ when he wants to be. But he can't see the future, and he sure as hell can't keep the damn world from collapsing. What if they're overrun? What if something happens?" It all came flooding out before he could temper it and he winced, expecting a smack from his fiery wife.

"Tony," she whispered, surprising him. "We know they made it there. You've _spoken_ to her."

He sighed. "Yeah, and that actually made me feel _worse_. She's _miserable_ , Pep. I practically pushed them out the door, and she wasn't ready. It would all be my fault."

She sat up, turning to look him in the eye, her red hair a halo in the deep dark, and they both knew exactly where this all was coming from. "Tony. You've been particularly twitchy since that mess with Ultron."

He pulled himself up. "I know. It's just—"

" _Nothing happened_. You caught the bad programming before it became insidious. _Nothing happened_. You fixed your mistake before it went south. _Nothing_ is your fault."

He chewed his lip, pulling a hand through his short hair. "My…my dream. That nightmare, it—"

"Was a _nightmare_. _Nothing more_." She shook her head. "Tony, you've been having problems with anxiety and sleep since before The Mandarin, and he just made it worse. You know it's just a dream. It's just residual nerves in your mind. That's all."

"Darcy was in the last one. And Buck."

The words hung between them for a moment, heavy in the dark.

"They were dead. His arm— _the arm_ —it was _gone_ , and he was _clutching_ her, but her eyes were empty. And it was my—"

Her small hands reached out and took up one of his, pressing against it. "Tony. It's just. A dream. You're worried about the people around you and you aren't sure how to process it. That's all. It doesn't mean the world is ending. And there's no indication that Darcy and James are in any sort of immediate danger. You said it yourself: he's _scary_ when he wants to be. That's a pretty strong deterrent for most bad guys— _another_ bad guy. He was a legend and a ghost story for a _reason_. How many people are going to willingly go toe-to-toe with him?"

He took a breath. "What if they don't need to?"

((()))

 _Everything_ hurt.

Her whole, entire body was aching, throbbing hard with her pulse, hot, then cold, then hot. The burn in her belly flared up in waves that, wincing, finally pulled her eyes open.

"Mmmm…" she groaned in pain, trying to focus. "God…" Her first instinct was, in alert hindsight, an unfortunate one, in this case. "Jamie…" She winced.

"That was _incredible_."

 _Not Jamie_.

She dragged her eyes up.

Killian was standing over her with a funny, awe-struck sort of look. "I mean, really. I knew that Karpov created a good base, but _wow_. Amazing."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. _You're here_ ," she muttered, letting her head tip weakly forward. "Why _are_ you here, anyway? I was having a nice, peaceful, sexy Hawaiian vacation before you rolled up in your British import." She winced at a hard stab of pain.

Aldrich smiled. "Well, I'm here for you, sweetheart."

She scowled again, which wasn't hard, considering the immense pain that was radiating from her core. God, Bucky was right—it was like she was experiencing the initial injury over and over, like she was trapped in some mini time warp.

She'd always hated _The_ _Time Warp_. Ever since her college boyfriend had dragged her to a _Rocky Horror Show_ for his birthday, made her go up to the front for that goddamn initiation, laughed at her, and then promptly fallen asleep.

The _jerk_.

But she digressed.

"Oh, _wow_ , I'm having trouble focusing here, buddy. You're gonna have to elaborate."

He nodded, looking mockingly sympathetic. "Yeah. PCP can do that to you."

PCP.

That jarred something.

They'd used PCP on Jamie. Large amounts of PCP; such large amounts that, over the years, they'd overridden its usefulness, not that he'd told Lukin about his tolerance, of course.

She smirked. He'd managed to defy them a little bit, after all.

"Alright. _Fine_ ," Aldrich relented, smiling at her like she'd pried it out of him at long last, and he was giving in, guilty pleasure style. "Let me explain. You remember last year? When Lukin got his hands on your guy?"

She nodded. "Yep. With _painful_ clarity."

He nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, that must've been tough, I'd imagine, huh? And _just_ when you'd gotten engaged." He began pacing before her, one part manic scientist, one part soliloquizing villain. "See, I was watching from my little hidey-hole, recuperating from the _vicious_ and altogether _unwarranted_ wounds suffered at the hands of Ms. Potts. And I _applauded_ you and your brave little club when you finished your clean up. But you guys had no clue that I had an ace in the deck, did you?"

She glared silently up at him. If she would just get her legs free she'd maybe stand a cha—no. No, she didn't stand any chance. Not for a moment.

Killian grinned again, that shark-like smile as he leaned over her. " _I had a guy on the inside._ "

She gave him a cynical look. "You mean to tell me that _one_ group of bad guys infiltrated _another_ group of bad guys? Why? To be _king of the hill_?"

His smile faltered and he backed off, reaching a hand into his inside jacket pocket. "He not only presented me with interesting information concerning the Winter Soldier's girl. He brought me a little present." He held up a small vial, filled with a clear, viscous liquid, and promptly paused for dramatic effect.

Darcy knew what it was, of course, but wasn't about to vindicate his arrogance with any sort of acknowledgement. The gunk in her veins had been made clear enough for him in the past eight hours or so, judging by the angle of light coming in off the water. Almost dinner hour, if her estimation was on point; she couldn't see a clock from her position by the small dining table, where, just the night before, they'd enjoyed an impromptu allowance of greasy burgers and fries from the little hole in the wall down the street. The little old lady waitress had called them a handsome couple. She'd thrown a few fries at him when he'd teased her, but he'd just caught them in his mouth, laughing.

Killian recovered with another smile. "All I had to do was wait."

She swallowed. "For _what_?"

He shrugged. "Well, I had to wait and observe you, obviously. See what Lukin's new serum did to you, if anything at all. See if it killed you and left your poor soldier _bereft_." He set a hand to his heart.

"You're _sick_ ," escaped before she could stop it, Bucky's voice in her head that he didn't know what he'd do without her.

He smiled again, broader. "I know." He shrugged. "Really, all I am is an opportunist, really."

She gestured with her chin. "So? You've got whatever gunk was still in the machine. _Newsflash_ , Killian: _that shit doesn't work_."

His creepy grin only broadened. "Maybe not yet. But it will when _I'm_ done with you."

((()))

Steve looked up from his sketch as Bucky came in, showing smiles and just-got-off-work ease to hide the fatigue and stiff back from his day at the garage. "Hey, Buck."

Bucky sighed as he shrugged off his coat. "Hey, Stevie. How's the cough today—better? You were still asleep when I left."

Steve shrugged his narrow shoulders and looked down at his drawing again. "It's okay. I think it's better." Promptly, a tickle he couldn't suppress rose up his throat and forced its way out of his chest, and it was wet and hard against his elbow, where he buried his face.

Bucky cocked a brow as he added his scarf to his coat on the peg by the apartment door and came all the way into the room. "Yeah, sounds much better. I won't bother stopping by to see Doc Severs on the way back from the diner tomorrow, eh? Since you're feeling so great…"

Steve sighed and returned to his drawing. "Jerk."

"Punk," Bucky rapidly returned.

Knowing they could volley all night, Steve let it drop as his friend came around behind him in the threadbare armchair and studied his half done sketch. "That Becca?"

Steve shrugged his thin shoulders again and shivered. "Supposed to be. Dunno if it's any good."

Bucky reached down to give his friend's shoulders a quick, affirmative squeeze, and crossed to the radiator, fiddling with the knobs. "They turn the heat back on this afternoon like they said they would? I squared up with Sam yesterday."

Steve nodded. "Think so."

Bucky shook his head and yanked at a button on his jumpsuit with one hand while the other continued to nudge at the stubborn switch on the thermostat. "This thing's on the fritz again."

"What's new?"

Shaking his head, Bucky stood and crossed the apartment into the bedroom to change. Steve warred with himself the whole five minutes it took for his friend to change into something not streaked with engine grease, but in the end, he felt like either decision was a major loss.

"Your uh…your pop stopped by," he finally said, haltingly. "'Round lunch."

Bucky paused in the doorway, his face hardening. "And? The old man come to badger you about me?"

Steve shrugged, then promptly lied. "Think he was just making sure we were settled okay."

Bucky snorted, pulling on his cardigan as he came into the room. "You lie for shit, Rogers."

Steve sighed. "I know. Sorry. I tried."

Bucky curled himself into the couch and turned his gaze to the window, overlooking the street below, busy in the half light of early evening. "He drunk?"

Steve hesitated.

" _Was he half in the bag, Stevie_?" he asked again.

He looked down at his drawing. "…Yeah. Wanted me to warn you again."

Bucky snorted, still staring out the window. "Warn me about what? Getting written out of the will? Shaming the family? Abandoning the business? Not settling down with a girl like _any good son my age_?"

Steve snorted. "…I think you covered all the main points, yeah."

He sighed. "Nothing new, then." Then he shrugged. "Guess I can't blame him for drinking. I'd drink, too, I dug graves and buried people all day. Why I left."

Steve chewed his lip. "He seems to think you should, uh…how did he put it? ' _Be a man and just do it._ '"

He still hadn't turned, but his voice was low. "I _can't_ , Stevie. Not after…"

Not sure what to say, he was silent.

"I helped him for _years_. You _know_ that. But the booze. And Becca. And _Sarah_ …"

A stab of pain caught Steve by surprise; he'd thought he was far enough out to avoid those little jolts, now, almost a year gone. "I know."

"He's not the same man he was, Stevie."

Steve could only stare down at his drawing, the raw look he'd unknowingly given Becca, pain in her eyes that he just noticed now, but Bucky surely had. "…I know."

"…I dunno, Rogers…this isn't feeling so good."

Steve looked up.

Tony hit a button on his remote and immediately they were assaulted by the loud, opening strains of 'Shook Me' by AC/DC.

Steve jumped, yanked out of the memory and back into the present, blinking hard in an effort to focus. He had to focus. God, he had to stop getting lost in his own head, getting lost in the past. He'd been doing that a _lot_ lately. "What doesn't, Tony?"

The inventor snatched up his socket wrench and went back to work on the drone's motor. "This whole 'working in here without the kid' thing. It's freaking me out."

Steve studied him for a moment. Tony did seem…on edge, his mind a dulled blade, out of focus and without direction. He'd become closer with Darcy than Steve had initially thought, seemed like he was spread too thin, like he needed a…what were people calling it now? A hit. "Why?"

He slumped back in his swivel chair and fixed him with his signature no nonsense, all walls down look, his coffee eyes vulnerable. "You feeling weird lately? Twitchy?"

Oh, shit.

"What do you mean?"

Tony stood and began pacing rapidly up and down in front of the long steel table. "The last couple weeks. You feeling weird at all?"

 _Yeah. My wife's adventuring in the lion's den, my two best friends are in some nebulous danger, I can't help, and—Oh, right—I haven't been laid lately. That too._

But he didn't say any of that. Mostly because Tony would flip, but also because he'd be relentlessly mocked for Captain America even using the word 'laid'. Of course, Tony only teased when he was particularly stressed.

And he looked _particularly stressed_.

"…Not really. Why? What's up?"

With a heavy sigh, he threw himself dramatically back into the same chair again, sending it spinning. He didn't bother to correct it, speaking to the space in front of him as he turned as though he hadn't moved at all. "I've been…having this recurring nightmare. Lately. Well. Since that mess with Ultron, really," he said, haltingly, and Steve realized why he'd let the chair turn.

"So…after New York?"

After he'd almost died, laying eyes on the far reaches of space and the Chitauri base on the other side of a worm hole. That would do that to a person.

The chair finally turned back and Steve was surprised when Tony looked him in the eye. "Yeah. It's been…worse since they left. Like something's wrong. But it can't be. I just talked to Short Stack a couple days ago. I can't keep calling, and there's no way I'm checking the cameras. Even I'm not that much of an exhibitionist and I do, in fact, draw lines—just, you know, usually, they're further along than the ones most people draw, and stuff."

Steve smirked to hide his trepidation. That was Tony. "What happens in the nightmare?"

 _The train car is so loud, the wind and the tracks are deafening._

 _Add to that the gunfire and it's a miracle they can hear each other at all._

 _And his shield is up, but he's not holding it._

 _And the metal is twisting._

 _And he's not strong enough—even now, he's not strong enough, not quick enough, not now, when it matters most—_

 _Bucky!_

 _Hang on!_

 _Grab my hand!_

 _Bucky!_

"You know what?" Tony cut into his thoughts again, abruptly getting up and as he reached out with the remote again, the music cut out, leaving the room echoing. "Forget it. No biggie. You want lunch?"

Steve sighed, recognizing a moment that Tony wasn't ready to have, abundantly clear in the way he veered hard left. Just as well—Steve wasn't ready for it, either. "Uh. Sure," he said, following him out the door and down the hall.

"I'm feeling Thai. You want Thai? There's a great place in Times Square. I'll have Happy bring the Veyron around."

Even _Steve_ knew _that_ one. "You've got a _Bugatti Veyron_?!"

((()))

A prick at the crease in her elbow _almost_ —but not quite—succeeded at drawing her out of the thick, nebulous fog she'd descended into. She was suspended there, privy to half conversations and snatches of thought, frayed ribbons of idea that she snatched fruitlessly at, unable to focus enough to close her hands around them, and they drifted through her fingers, sifting, like sand, rapidly approaching and arriving with loud haste, before fading to murmurs that she was unable to entirely pick out and catalogue.

"Anything yet?"

"I'm not entirely sure at this stage. The last episode did draw an inordinate amount of white blood cells to the fore, but I'm not sure what the mechanism is, yet. I'm not definitively able to tell what the base has latched to, be it the white cells or something else. Until I'm sure, we'll need to keep using the catalyst."

"So that sets us back?"

"Unfortunately. We can't apply our filler until we know how it will affect her. It might kill her. Then your formula will be useless, gone."

"Alright, alright. Loud and clear. How long will that EMP perimeter hold? And that TMS you rigged? I don't want any chance of us having any uninvited guests."

"Don't worry. I've been keeping an eye. That TMS has him pretty thoroughly down for the count. We've got time yet. Next time she's up, we'll stimulate a stronger episode and see what happens."

She floated, half aware, not fully awake.

The gray of her thoughts was shifting and nebulous.

The lines were blurred.

"Jane. It's just lunch. He asked me to _lunch_. What are you worrying about?"

" _Seriously_? You don't know what I'm worried about? Thanks, but I was lucky just to _find_ you. I'd rather not lose my intern—and _very_ good friend—to a _master assassin_."

Darcy sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose and slide her glasses back in place. "Jane-y. He's not gonna snap and kill me in the food truck line, okay?"

"And how the hell do you know that, Darcy?"

She sighed—again. "I just…I just _do_."

"Uh-uh, I want you to explain to me how you seriously think you're inside the head of a—"

" _Don't_ say it." She held up a hand. "Oh, my _freaking_ God, Jane. What happened to your compassion? This man—this _seriously gorgeous_ man—was a prisoner of war for almost _sixty years_. He was _mind raped, brainwashed_ , forced to do _horrible_ things, and _now_ has to live with the consequences. Can you imagine how that must _feel_? _Can_ you? Because _I can't_."

Jane paused at the whiteboard and turned to give her a guilty look. "I…I know. Okay, Darcy? I'm not a heartless bitch. I just…I just don't think it's safe."

"Of _course_ it's not safe!"

Jane frowned. "So you agree?"

Darcy shrugged. "Of _course_ I agree—it's _New York_! New York is _bat-shit crazy_. But _Bucky's_ not. In fact, having only spoken to him a handful of times, I can tell that I can trust him with my _life_ —it's _everyone else_ in New York that freaks the shit out of me."

Jane slumped. "Darcy—"

"Has it occurred to you that maybe he just wants a friend? Someone who won't keep asking questions? Someone who's okay with him feeling the way he feels without trying to _fix_ it?"

She slumped further.

"Can't you tell?"

"Tell what?"

Darcy stood from the workbench and dumped her file folder on the done pile. "He's _lonely_ , Jane. The only person who's familiar is Steve. And Steve is _such a good guy_ , but he's totally got blinders on. He only sees the Bucky he _knew_. The one that fell off that train."

Jane's eyes narrowed. " _So_ …?"

Darcy sighed again, frustrated. "So, he's _not that guy anymore_. How _could_ he be?!"

Jane finally turned to face her, hands on her hips. "So _you_ have to be the one to—what— _fix him_?"

Shaking her head, the intern crossed to the doorway to grab her cardigan from its hook. "Of _course_ not. But if asking me to lunch helps him feel more…more _fixed_ , then I'm sure as hell not gonna say _no_. It's. Just. Lunch. I'm a big girl, remember? You RSVP'd to my graduation ceremony next week. Technically, according to the university, I'm done working for you. I stay because I love ya, but you've gotta loosen the reins, okay? _Not_ my mother." She grinned as she pulled on the sweater.

Jane threw herself onto a lab stool. "I know. I'm sorry." She capped her dry erase marker and set it on the steel table. "It's just…he's _scary_. And, when on earth have you even _talked_ to him?"

"He's not _scary_. He's just a little… _damaged_. We talked—well, _I_ talked—in the lab just after Steve brought him in."

Jane pulled a face and opened her mouth—

But Darcy kept trucking. "And at Tony and Pep's wedding, I found him by accident out on the back deck, hiding from everyone and trying to find a little peace and quiet. He's not scary." She shrugged. "He's sweet."

Suspicion dawning as she listened, Jane rose again from the table, eyes wide as she came around it, pointing her finger.

But her intern was already ducking out. " _Just lunch_ , Jane-y! Back in a couple hours. _Eat a Pop Tart_!"

As soon as one nebulous something drifted through, another was on its tail, so quickly and yet so without order or reason, that she wasn't able to keep it all straight, her conscious mind clawing for a handhold, somewhere, _anywhere_ , in the fog.

"Wait, so the guys in red always die?"

Darcy laughed, scooting closer and tucking her feet under his thigh. "Yeah, Steve didn't get that right away either. If you pay close attention on all landings and shore leaves, _usually_ the guy that gets it is in red."

"And they're…support officers?"

She nodded. "Yep." She settled into the couch cushions and reached up to brush a strand of hair behind Bucky's ear. "You're sure you wanna watch this? You seem strangely confused for you. I mean, usually you're pretty whip smart—you pick up things twice as fast as Steve."

He shook his head, watching as William Shatner spoke into his communicator. "No, no, this is good. Just making sure I've got it all straight."

She grinned. "You're a geek."

He looked over at her, a half a smile curling one side of his mouth. "Oh, _yeah_?"

She nodded, leaning into his arm, wrapped around her back. " _Yeah_. You dragged Steve to the Stark Expo before you shipped out, right?"

He chuckled. "Wanted to see the hovering car."

She snorted. "Yeah, that was what we call a ' _concept car'_ and nowhere near _actual_ _truth_."

"But it was _cool_!"

"Science your favorite topic at school?"

He shrugged his right shoulder. "And history."

"Always had your nose in a book?"

He nodded.

"Yep." She poked his temple. " _Geek_."

"Said the girl who just got her Master's in… _what was it_?" He cocked a challenging brow. "Politics?"

She gaped at him in mock hurt. "You know very well it's _Political Science, Mister Barnes_!" She poked him again, but he reached up to grab her hand.

"Sorry. All I heard was ' _political'_."

She gasped. "You take that back, Winter Soldier!"

He laughed. "Nope."

" _Yes_!" she insisted, giggling as she futilely attempted to retrieve her arm from his iron grip. "You take that back _right now_!"

His brows went up. "Why _should_ I?"

" _Because_!" she continued, yanking at her hand. "Because, I…I'll…" The rest was lost as they struggled back and forth, laughing and breathless, until finally she was pinned beneath him on her tiny couch, arms up behind her, held in place by his big hands, and his weight was a delicious heaviness on her that she hadn't felt in far too long.

"You gonna make me?" he challenged, his voice low and his summer blue eyes darkening into sea water at night, and he didn't have to say anything for her to know what he wanted.

They hadn't, yet.

Not that she didn't _want_ to.

She wanted to give him time, regardless of the fact that she suspected she was long gone and entirely lost to him.

She didn't answer, just swallowed and stared up at him, well aware of the dramatic pause they'd manufactured.

And then he was kissing her, thoroughly, and with ridiculous finesse, much as he had many times previously. His mouth drew every single thought out of her mind like a brisk wind and sent her reeling. His tongue lapped at her lips and she let him deepen the embrace, curling her legs around his waist, _Star Trek_ forgotten on the screen, but she had to temper herself or he'd pull back.

She'd been trying desperately to pace herself, fully aware that while she knew they were _definitely_ at the same point in the relationship, she was on a much more even playing field, no dark memories, jagged edges, or nightmares to speak of. She didn't want to push him when she understood his worry of hurting her by mistake.

But she couldn't stop the moan of pleasure from easing up her throat and out, and, right on cue, he pulled slowly back, catching himself up, leaving her with a hot trail of little kisses down her throat—her favorite habit of his. "Darcy…" he murmured.

"It's okay," she said, breathless as she reached up to run her fingers through his hair. "It's _totally_ okay. I get it. You don't…feel like… _you_ , yet. I get it. You don't need to explain."

He looked guilty. "You'll be the first to know?"

She smiled, combing the soft strands behind his ear. " _Awesome_."

He pulled her up and let her curl into his lap, her head on his shoulder and his metal arm around her back as they went back to the television.

"You're gonna love this—this is the one with the Tribbles…"

"The _what_?"

She snorted, snuggling against him. "You'll see…"

 _Darcy._

 _Darcy, it's gonna get hard, soon, baby._

 _You mean it's not already?_

 _Not yet. You'll see._

 _Are you coming?_

 _I'm coming as fast as I can. But you need to be strong. Okay?_

 _I dunno. I don't think I've got it in me._

 _You do._

 _This serum…it's sucked everything out of me. Everything that made me, me, it's pulled it all out like some kind of incubus._

 _It didn't. You'll see. You've just gotta be strong. It'll be over soon. It'll be over and you'll see what I mean._

 _Don't go. Please don't leave me here._

 _I'll be right there, solnishka. Just hold on. Just hold on for a little while longer. Hold on to me._

 _I won't ever let you go…_

She jerked awake with a gasp, her eyes wrenching open as she sat bolt upright. "Jamie?"

"She keeps doing that," Aldrich said. "Should she be doing that? Is she okay?"

The same small blonde from earlier gave him a steady look. "Killian. We've been dosing her with PCP for hours. Add to that your standard displacement of pain, and yes—it's normal. She reaches for the nearest port of land. In this case, she feels safest with him. She searches for him first. Like a touchstone."

Aldrich sighed. "Whatever. Just get going. Dose her up."

She glared at him as the conversation finally trickled through. "What now, Aldrich? Another field trip into my head?"

He smiled. "Oh, no. I haven't finished my villainous lecturing yet. That's still coming. First, we have to establish your base," he said, waving his hand, like this should all be obvious.

"What base?"

The woman stepped forward, testing the large needle in her hand with a squirt of yellowish liquid.

"We have to find the threshold for the serum in your veins, find the highest point of its working order without totally breaking you. It's standard procedure."

Darcy nodded, groggy in her bravado. "Oh, right. Of course. Of course."

But a hard lump of fear was lodged in her throat. She couldn't keep doing this when she _had_ Bucky—now, _without_ him… She swallowed, looking pleadingly at the woman. "Please." She tried to sound even-keeled and brave. "Please. Don't. _Please_."

She glanced back at her superior.

He waved his hand again, frowning. " _Go_."

The needle was jabbed into her arm before she could plead again, and whatever catalyst it contained sent fire spreading through her veins with rapid ease.

She screamed.


	7. Chapter 7: Heavy In Your Arms

**Chapter 7** **: Heavy In Your Arms**

 **Summary:** **In which things continue to spiral in a downwards direction.**

 **Notes:** **Whew! Well. That got away on me a bit. Guys, I'm sorry for the delay! I meant to post this about three attempts ago, but the holidays, as they're want to do, have made things a bit crazy. So here we are. I've posted my Sherlock Christmas fic, so if you're still poking about for holiday themed cuteness (starring a dog!) go check it out! I had lots of fun writing that! I knew I couldn't work that in here, so I took a slightly different route.** **Anyhoo, here we are. This one's only gonna include more flashbacks and angst. There's big angst in this one.** **Really looking forward to hearing what you guys think as we're going along. Let me know how you like.** **Chapter title taken from the Florence + The Machine song of the same name. It seemed like an appropriate theme, given that Darcy and Bucky are constantly worrying that they're dragging each other down. Also, as always, I DO NOT OWN MARVEL. As I sit here watching Top Gear, I sigh in longing. ;)** **Enjoy!**

((()))

Bucky was wrenched roughly into consciousness by a sound, a noise, a _vicious_ noise, and jerked upright in the sand, looking wildly around, his heart pounding.

But just like that, it was gone.

He drew his stiff legs up and slumped, his elbows on his knees, his swimming head in his hands.

His mind was swirling, teeming with all the new thoughts, new faces, new-old things he hadn't thought of in— _literally_ —decades, pictures and colors and feelings he'd thought long gone, fractured into dust in his past.

His mother's face.

The front of the family's property, the wooden sign, painted in soft, sympathetic pastels, advertising one of Brooklyn's only undertakers.

Becca laughing at him as he mimicked a radio show she'd made him sit and listen to with her.

Meeting Stevie, coming around a dim corner after school, his books under his arm, to find three big, older kids from his class, known bullies, beating up on a small kid in a tiny coat.

Taking him home to his mother and walking him home after dinner.

Seeing Sarah's face, lit from within by the light over their kitchen sink, her warm, soft smile, so different from his own mother, as she handed him a piece of pie.

His first kiss—a redhead named Mary Beth, freckles on her face, and a little sister she walked home every day after school.

His first friend, Henry, from a giant family down the street, and the day he didn't come to school, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the teacher telling them all he'd been very sick and had died. Not understanding, fully, what that meant, but going to his funeral and staring at Henry's mother as she sobbed, spotting Steve across the pew.

They'd walked home together afterward, quiet, until Steve told him his father was dead, too, only photos left that he'd shown him not long after.

They'd been inseparable ever since.

He groaned, trying to swallow back the throbbing ache behind his eyes, but it was no use—they kept coming, rapidly, painfully, bright in his consciousness, forceful after so long crying out to be remembered, every single memory he'd thought lost, doomed to hazy half-remembering, eagerly supplied by Steve, sometimes in casual passing, sometimes in the hopes it would jog something loose.

Sarah, singing, her bell-like tones as she hummed along with the radio while she hung the laundry to dry on the line on the balcony of their tiny apartment.

His first whipping from his father, biting his lip until he tasted blood to keep from crying, but never giving in to the assertion that he work to separate himself from the people they dressed up every day in the parlor downstairs.

Swearing he could smell it every night when he couldn't sleep.

Death.

It _clung_ to him, his clothes, he could _swear_.

His mother, face tight as she did nothing to stop it, any of it.

Hating her, then, and never really able to shake the feeling.

Running to Sarah afterward, crawling into her lap, unlike any other ten-year-old he'd ever met, curling against her legs while she murmured to him, running her fingers through his shorn hair.

Enduring the awful, quiet tension of helping his father, day after day, in the parlor, shutting himself off from the grief around them, and silently going about what was expected of him, no matter how unbearable.

Becca's smile.

Their car, the old Chevy Standard that had barely been able to tow a casket, absolutely horse-drawn compared with them now.

He'd swiped it one night for a date, and they'd laughingly had at it in the back seat, fumbling through a sloppy first time for them both, their breath fogging up the windows.

Annie. Her name was Annie. They'd gone steady for a few weeks, after, until the quarterback had asked her out. So he'd gone out with her friend Jill instead.

Coming to blows with his drunk father over Sarah's body.

Storming out, the clumsy bellow following him into the street that he ain't never to show his face under that roof again.

Finding Steve huddled in the corner of their apartment and quietly boxing up their few belongings and hiking him out to look for a place for the both of them.

Going steady with Rosie, the waitress at the diner down the street, until she moved away.

Spending a whole paycheck to buy Stevie's medicine, and then lying about it later so Steve wouldn't feel so guilty.

Stepping out for his shift at the garage and seeing the headlines on the front page, Hitler taking Poland.

Pearl Harbor.

Standing in line at the registry office with Stevie chattering excitedly beside him.

Teaching him to box like he did, earning them a little money on the side on Friday nights, and hoping with everything he had that it still wouldn't be enough for them to take his weak, fragile, frail best friend, so someone could stay and take care of Becca, so Steve could _live_.

The French trenches, his friends dying around him, the only one to survive and wondering if it wasn't that extra layer of wool sweater from Sarah on Christmas so long ago, a bright red jumper, battered and torn paper that he'd unwrapped to find a neat, stitched letter _B_ on the front. Praying to her instead, that she'd somehow managed to save his life on those wintry nights.

Becoming a Sergeant. Laughing and drinking with his men.

Failure. Dread. Capture. Pain. Starvation.

And Stevie… _not_ Stevie. But still Steve. In the dark, after so long being poked and prodded, a familiar face, come to get him.

Laughter and cigars, and good whiskey, and Peggy, her curled chestnut waves, and her bright, crimson painted lips.

And Steve's bright flush.

The icy wind in the train car, lancing through him, the tight fear that had barely wrapped its boney fingers around him before he fell. The wind rushing past his face.

The snow.

 _Bloody_ snow. And Russian. Garbled Russian and a round, bespectacled face, and a tiny voice shooting pins and needles up his back.

Darkness.

A cute, curvy brunette chattering as she threw herself onto the lab stool across from him, the color high in her cheeks as she assured him that things would be different now.

He flinched.

And the sound was back, a wrenching scream that had him on his feet in less than a second, staring up at Tony's beach house, the hollow, sharp pain that started in his chest and spread as he finally realized what was happening.

 _Darcy_.

They had Darcy.

Someone had Darcy.

And oh, _God_ , she was screaming like they were pulling her soul from her body, and he couldn't take that _noise_ , that bloody murder, laced with fear. His reaction was immediate and visceral, so much more forceful than all those months ago, while she'd struggled, curled up in pain in their apartment, begging him to kill her.

He bit his lip against the clench in his throat and the sting in his eyes, clamped hard down on the raw panic in his gut, and steadied his feet, forcing himself to move.

So, his head still swimming with faces and colors, and sounds, echoing down the years, he struggled to put one foot in front of the other, and made for the nearest cover he could find.

((()))

Natasha watched it all from a dark corner, still and silent as a shadow as Killian and the blond doc watched Darcy struggling dispassionately, the woman jotting notes into her tablet every few seconds, unmoved by their subject's writhing and crying.

She kept asking for Bucky.

Jamie.

In her pain and delirium, she kept asking for _her Jamie_.

It was all she could do to stand there and watch and not rush forward and take care of business. She _hated_ not taking care of business. This was her job, damn it to hell, and she could see the steps in her head, the exact set of pirouettes that would be required to take the both of them out.

A kick, a shove, a punch, a head but, an arm lock—maybe she'd grab his balls just to keep it interesting—and they'd both be down for the count.

But then she'd have to muddle her way through the support staff teeming around the property, and she couldn't do that alone. They'd almost be worse off if she did that.

So she stood there, watching her friend—her closest one after Steve—crying out in pain and agony as her body trembled and locked, seizing and writhing, her face pale as a sheet, hollow and taut.

They hadn't even let her get dressed.

She was tied to that damn kitchen chair in her short little nightgown and robe, the cinch loosening with every jab of the needle, and Natasha flushed with anger.

She and Steve had had a nice, peaceful honeymoon, away from everyone else, the entire team completely clueless that they'd even been sweet on each other, let alone dating, engaged, fooling around—or _married_.

They'd extended a mission without telling anyone—just totally ditched in secret—and stolen away to a little courthouse in Florida before getting on a boat and drifting past The Keys and onwards, finally ending up in a little cabin on stilts, complete with turquoise water and purple sunsets.

No one to bother them.

No one to question, or judge, no one to disapprove.

Not that anyone would've disapproved of _Captain America_.

No. Of course not, they wouldn't _dream_ of it.

She gave Darcy a lot of credit. She'd had the balls to follow her heart and she went toe to toe with anyone who questioned her decisions, defending Bucky with her mouth and her _teeth_ and her uncanny ability to _viciously_ cut down anyone who dared to voice even the _slightest_ uncertainty.

She and Steve had had a truly wonderful two weeks away from all of that potential and had only had to ignore the slack-jawed looks of everyone upon their return.

Her friend couldn't even have any of that.

Ironic, really, that most of the people that made up their team had come from painful backgrounds, coming up in life feeling somehow different or like outsiders. And the first thing they did was call _Bucky_ into question, so like Steve in most respects, really. James was sharper in a lot of ways, definitely a little more on the morally ambiguous side, but that was only a front. He was honorable and kind. He was sweet. All Natasha had had to do was keep a close eye on him with Darcy for a few hours to know that.

"So. You and Buck, huh?" she said as she lifted her Miller Lite to her mouth for a swig. It was the week before Christmas, and they'd gotten together to shoot the breeze.

Darcy looked sharply up at her as she shut the fridge door, her tiny apartment shaking with the effort. "You gonna get judge-y too?"

But Natasha smirked as she raised her free hand in a gesture of disarm. " _Me_? Darce, I'm the _least_ likely of anyone in that Tower to judge, remember?"

Darcy sighed—also with effort—and snapped the top of her Dos Equis open before returning the bottle opener to its magnetic home on the fridge door. "Right. Sorry."

She tucked herself into a corner of the small couch and slid off her boots. "Let me guess—Foster giving you trouble? Maybe…Maximoff?" She held up a hand. "Ah. _Hill_."

Darcy scowled and threw herself into the other end of the couch, snatching up the remote impatiently on her way. "It's like I went from intern to _daughter_ in the space of a week, like I'm fucking _sixteen_. I'm almost _thirty_. I think that makes me a big girl. And Wanda keeps laughing and asking if I've got all my fingers." She gestured. "Would you believe—Hill actually implied that he could get in trouble for 'fraternizing with an agent of inferior rank'?!"

Natasha's eyebrows rose. "Fraternization? _Seriously_? SHIELD isn't military, as much as Hill would like it to be."

Darcy huffed, rolling her eyes and hitting a button on the remote, queuing up the Netflix and tabbing over to the fourth episode of _Lucifer_. "Seriously."

She cocked her head. "You're…not an agent. There _is_ no fraternization to speak of."

"Consequently, how, exactly, did you and Steve get away with that, anyway?" she needled, eyeing the spy with a raised brow.

Natasha smirked. "Technically speaking, SHIELD has no rules on agents of the same clearance. Besides—"

" _Technically_ , SHIELD is no more," Darcy finished for her, grinning.

Natasha tipped her head. "Lewis."

"And Tony?"

She shrugged. "Said congrats and offered to polish our rings on one of his freaky machines."

Darcy snorted a bit of laughter, shaking her head as she sipped her beer. "Yeah, everyone's afraid of you, so you get off easy."

Natasha shrugged, thinking. "Well, everyone's afraid of Bucky…"

Darcy sighed, letting her head flop back on the couch cushions. "Yeah, _too_ afraid. And don't forget—he's unstable. He might _snap and kill me in my sleep_!"

She let the coy look curl her mouth. "And have you?"

Coloring in Darcy's cheeks gave her away, but she asked anyway. "Have I, what?"

The opening of the devilish show rocked into the room. "Slept with him?"

The color peaked. "Slept. Not… _slept_."

Natasha narrowed her eyes, reading her. "Soon, though, I'd wager."

Darcy sighed, softening and twisting around, folding her legs under her. "He's…he's…good. He's really good. He's sweet and he talks to me. I've never had a guy _talk_ to me like he does. It's ironic, really. And he _snuggles_ —the _Winter Soldier_! He's a _phenomenal_ kisser—I mean, gimme a break." She laughed self-consciously.

"But…?" Natasha needled at her.

Darcy shrugged. "He…he doesn't want to hurt me."

Natasha shrugged, conceding. "Valid concern."

Darcy nodded. " _Totally_ , yeah. And I mean…I'm okay with that. You know?"

More needling. "But…?"

She shrugged again, coloring. "He's…different. For me. He's different. He's not just some guy. And…and I've been trying to get a handle on that, but I'm having trouble, and everyone keeps asking me these stupid questions, like _'How many words did you get out of him tonight, Darcy?'_ and _'I thought I would check you for all your limbs,_ ' and ' _Make sure you remember: righty, tighty; lefty, loosey_.' Like it's _funny_ , what happened to him. And I…I can't…I can't _deal_ with it, Tash. I can't _deal_ with it. And to whine and say, ' _it's so unfair'_ just makes me sound like a pouty toddler. You know?"

Sensing this as a moment where words were not yet needed, she only nodded.

"And I've never…I've never stayed the night, you know?" the brunette murmured, nervously brushing her hair behind her ear, unable to make eye contact. "I've never stayed the night before—and we haven't even _slept_ together!" She bit her lip. "And sometimes he wakes up during the night and he remembers something, and his face, it…his _face_ …" She frowned. "And I'm having a hard time dealing with this. I guess I wasn't expecting to deal with this by association, but I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't cry over him—not in front of him, anyway. And I almost punched Jane in the face yesterday when she called him 'soldier freak'."

Natasha snorted. "Yeah, sometimes Foster is something else."

"It's like she's _territorial_ , she's worse than my father was before I booked it outta there, Tasha! I mean, I guess I was expecting a little trepidation from people, I wouldn't have blamed anyone for telling me to be careful, but I wasn't expecting this level of… _hostility_! I don't know what to _do_ with all this!"

A thought occurred to her. "Has Stark said anything?"

Darcy sighed, hitting the 'pause' button and leaning back again with a poof of the cushions. "That's the thing: he keeps coming in and hanging around, like he's watching me. Three times this week, I could _swear_ he's come in needing help with something he shouldn't have needed help with—he's fucking _Tony Stark_! It's like he's giving me excuses or helping me escape, like he feels bad about it. I had no idea he was paying that much attention, Tasha."

Natasha smirked. "Yeah. Tony can be a piece of work, but he looks after his own."

"His own what?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. But you're _someone_ to him now. Maybe you'll luck out—maybe he'll offer you a job with him instead."

And now…here they were.

Natasha had thought—foolishly, now, obviously—that when she'd gone straight, she wouldn't have to endure watching anymore torture sessions.

She'd been wrong.

Darcy gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut and ducking her head as far as her secures would allow, letting slip a damnable whimper of agony.

Natasha's stomach turned over.

Killian gestured. "She's just about broken, wouldn't you say?"

As if on cue, Darcy finally lost her battle, slipping into merciful unconsciousness and Natasha let out a silent sigh of relief, swallowing down her rise of nausea.

Watching her friend suffering was an exercise all in itself.

And she suddenly missed Steve so badly it made her _itch_. It was new, for her, tenderness and romantic physical contact. She'd been trained to use her body like a tool and nothing else. But with Steve, it was different. And now…now, here, with this brokenness in front of her, she desperately wanted him to appear and wrap her in his arms and hold her so closely to his body that she stopped shivering.

And it was _seriously_ hard not to march herself outside and track Bucky down. She was concerned for him too, but she hadn't been given a directive to scope out the grounds yet.

The blond—she still hadn't been introduced and was laughably lacking in a name as of yet—kept mentioning a _TMS_. The only connection Natasha could make was worrisome. Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation was often used in small doses to stimulate small regions of the brain with a field generator, or a coil, in a medical setting, minutely controlled. To hear her talk, she'd taken the idea and run with it, creating some sort of EMP-like force field around the property. Natasha wasn't sure if this would affect anyone with normal brain activity—because clearly what was done to Bucky over the years had somehow, qualitatively altered his overall brain chemistry—and she was worried that he was out there, brain squeezing to mush.

And that was _on top of_ the EMP force field she'd fired up upon their arrival, which surely would've taken his cybernetic appendage out of service as well.

She let out another silent sigh, watching the doctor type out more notes with Killian looking over her shoulder. This was all supposed to be _theoretical_ —or at least _experimental_ —science. AIM had always been good at finding the best and brightest in the scientific and mathematical fields in _Bad Guy 101_ , and there had clearly been a lot of time spent on this plan. They seemed to have spent a particularly large amount of time looking to create a way to get the two newlyweds separated.

Killian had spent the first few nights—on and off—skulking around the property while Natasha played bodyguard in the Jag, wringing her hands and resisting the awful, cloying urge to call Steve.

She missed him.

 _Hard_.

Her hotel room bed was too big, and cold, and she was starting to itch for a lay so badly she'd nearly caved the night before and called him anyway, just to hear his soft voice on the other end of the line. He'd surprised her; she hadn't expected him to be anything short of a virginal boy scout, but he'd sure proved her wrong, and now in this uncertainty, the weight of him on her seemed the only sure thing in her mind.

"Might be adrenaline."

The woman's contemplative voice cut into Natasha's thoughts, and she locked her gaze on them, listening with all her watered down serum.

"The baseline?" Killian encouraged.

She nodded. "Yeah. It might be linked somehow to the release of epinephrine."

Aldrich shook his head. "No. No, that doesn't work. I watched her go through at least two bouts with no release at all. It woke her up a few times. What's going to encourage a rush of adrenaline in sleep?"

She shrugged. "A nightmare, perhaps? Besides, you're thinking too closely. If the serum has enhanced the sensitivity of her alpha and beta receptors, then there may be a simple chemical miscommunication going on, nothing more."

Killian narrowed his eyes at her. "Can you fix that?"

She smiled, tapping her tablet again. "Of course. You'll have your own little protégé in no time."

Natasha's stomach bottomed out.

Aldrich smiled, slow and wide, like a shark. "Good. Get to work."

((()))

Steve threw a fresh punch. "So you and Darce, huh?"

Bucky scowled and blocked him. "What about it, Rogers?"

Steve smirked, throwing another one, a bead of sweat trickling down the small of his back. "Don't be a jerk. It was just a question. I've been waiting to say something more about it since New Year's last week, but I didn't wanna be weird."

Bucky was silent, tossing in a punch of his own.

Steve feinted left to avoid it, taking a half step. "So…?"

Bucky sighed. "'So' _what_?"

Steve pulled another punch, landing it on his friend's left shoulder, and the report sang up his arm to his elbow, and he couldn't help wincing. "Is it _good_? I mean…it's…good? You guys are getting along okay?"

Bucky stepped back, eyeing Steve's hands. "Redo your tape, punk."

Steve smiled at the way the old banter had come rushing right back, and pretended not to notice his friend's deflection. He rewound the tape on his knuckles.

Bucky crossed the mat for his water bottle and took a swig.

"Okay. I won't ask. I know, I'm probably being pushy again. Was just curious. I'm not gonna be one of those guys that gets married and then tries to set up the wedding party." He grinned, chuckling.

Bucky was staring silently up, at the light coming in from the high, high windows, just barely street level, set into the top of the wall in the underground part of the Tower. "Was thinking of askin' her…actually," he finally said, his voice low, almost contemplative.

Steve couldn't help it; he stopped mid-wrap, his mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. "Wait—to _marry_ you? Like, _propose_?"

Bucky turned and gave him his old sarcastic look he should've had patented back in '31. "No, asking her to go to Coney Island, Stevie."

Steve flinched, then blushed, smirking at himself. "No, right, yeah. Uh… _wow_. Okay." He rubbed the back of his neck, surprised, hearing Darcy's snark in his head about him having them getting married. "I guess I, uh…I didn't know it was…that it was so…" He tried again. "You guys are giving Nat and I a run for our money—what's it been? Six months?"

He'd come in out of the cold in spring—just weeks after The Triskelion had burned. Early April.

He and Nat had had that mission in Abu Dhabi that May, and had been sleeping together by the time summer arrived.

Tony and Pepper's wedding had been that summer, too, in June, the trees in bloom on the back deck, where Tony had mentioned seeing them talking, and—maybe— _flirting_.

Jane and Darcy's fight in July, Darcy running off and Bucky darting after her. Natasha had found him soon after, watching from the front windows of the Tower in the afternoon heat, the crashing of the city muted by the glass walls as he watched their progress up the street.

He and Nat had run off in August.

And New Year's, last week, when he'd been surprised that it was still a thing between them, convinced, like an idiot, that it was a friendly stupid… _whatever_.

So…that was six months, give or take, roughly speaking, since he didn't know when they'd really started going out. " _Wow_ , Buck."

His friend didn't offer any details. "What?"

Steve shrugged, memories flying by in his mind's eye, assaulting him. "Guess I never…expected you to…" He shrugged. "You were never…"

Bucky shrugged too, taking another drink. "If I _was_ or _wasn't_ , doesn't matter, Stevie. Not that guy, anymore—remember?"

Steve flinched again. "Right. Yeah. It's just…" He winced as it slipped out.

Bucky turned, sighing. "Just _what_?"

He sighed, defeated. "It's just that…who you were, _then_ , and who you are _now_ , are…actually pretty similar."

Now Bucky flinched.

Steve sighed again. "I'm sorry. I just…I'm _sorry_. I shouldn't have said anything."

But Bucky was already moving on. "You're not gonna tell me it's a bad idea?"

"Were you _expecting_ me to?"

He shrugged. Again.

Steve finished securing the wrapping on his left hand and moved on to the right. "No. I mean, you know what's good for you, and good for Darce, and…I guess I didn't realize it was so…serious, I dunno." He swallowed. They'd always been sort of lousy at talking about this sort of crap. ' _With you 'til the end of the line, pal'_ was usually about as openly sentimental as they got with each other. "You love her?"

Bucky nodded, looking straight at him. "Wonders never cease."

Steve snorted, sure that was just the tip of the ice berg. That was usually how Bucky was—way more than you thought going on below the surface. The guy was gyres and gyres of feeling and thought and the Winter Soldier wasn't so good at conveying it all with words. "Well, if _Bucky Barnes_ is in love, she _must_ be the one."

He set his water bottle back down and adjusted the tie in his hair, twisting it back again into a tiny knot at the base of his skull.

"You said you were _thinking_ about it. You're not sure?"

Bucky shrugged. "Guess I wasn't, but…she said something…on New Year's."

"What?"

He looked away, awkward. "That when I found… _me_ …she'd…still be there…waiting, that she wasn't…going anywhere."

Steve smirked. "Sounds like an invitation to me."

Bucky nodded. "That was what I thought—"

"Steve. _Steve-O_. Hey, man—you here or you off somewhere in your head again?"

Steve jerked, turning to find Sam wrapping his hands by the sandbag. "Uh. Sorry. Yeah, I'm here."

Sam didn't look convinced. "You _sure_? You looked pretty lost in there, like you took a left where you should'a taken a right, man."

Steve smiled. "Yeah. Sorry.

Sam made a shrugging motion and shook his head. "Hey, it's okay. You wanna talk, go for it."

Steve approached the sandbag and held it steady for his friend. "It's nothing, really." He chewed his lip, considering.

Sam was trustworthy.

Sam was what Tony would jokingly call a ' _good bro'_.

But Natasha, Natasha was whispering in his head that that _exact_ sort of tiny little innocent leak was what might cause a major, fatal _capsizing_ later.

He snapped his trap shut. "Just worried about Tasha. That's all."

Sam frowned, leveling a punch and letting loose on the bag. "You said she's after some Red Room op from her nasty days?"

He nodded, feeling guilt prick at him.

"Well. You and I both know how good she is, man. She'll get her due and come slinking on back to you like she does, hair all perfect, smirking at you like a little minx."

The urge to defend her clawed its way up his throat before he looked up and saw the teasing smirk on his friend's face. "Yeah. You're right."

He let off another punch, and Steve readjusted his hold. " _Weak_ , man. C'mon."

Sam scowled at him. "That's not all that's eatin' you, Cap. _You_ 'c'mon' now."

Steve sighed, caught red-handed. "I'm just…I'm worried about Darce and Buck."

Sam cocked a brow and sank another shot. "Why? Those two are rock-solid."

So he saw it, too? Good. "What do you mean?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, it's not like _those two_ are gonna get into a knockdown-drag out and ruin the whole trip, is it? Haven't seen those two fight once, man. It's a little obnoxious for us single folk."

Steve grinned. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

Another careless shrug. "Hey, it's okay. Better it happened when I wasn't too invested yet, you know? Just glad I saw the other side of her. There's always another side, and you gotta be prepared for it in case you don't like what you see. But that was a whole other level, Steve. I'm not dealing with crap like that. Don't need that kind of person in my life. That's nasty energy, you know?"

Steve sighed. "I knew Maria could be tough, but…" He shook his head. "I'm just glad I wasn't here for it. I don't know what I would've done. Darcy's like my kid sister, you know?"

Sam nodded. "So why are you worried about those two, anyway?"

The look on Tony's face the day before appeared in his mind again, and he frowned at it, wondering if they weren't on the same page even without really talking about it. "I dunno." He sighed. "Forget I said anything. Just being stupid."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, you are. You gonna hold that thing still or you gonna make me work for it?"

((()))

After dark, Bucky ventured out on unsteady legs, still shaken, but not much worse for wear, the rush of the tide calming his roiling mind.

He was no fool. He knew perfectly well that he was up against failure, let alone making absolutely zero progress this first go-around. But he had to establish a base of intelligence, and that required cover of darkness.

He needed a total number of hostiles on the property before he did anything else. He also needed to establish the perimeter of the force field that he'd unfortunately tripped in his haste that afternoon. It had resembled an EMP, but to knock him out, it would have to have been something else entirely. An EMP was capable of putting his arm out of commission, but not his _head_.

He frowned. What the hell was it? And who the hell were they, for that matter, and what the _fuck_ did they want with his girl?!

And how on earth was he going to get Darcy out of there when he could barely _think_ straight?!  
He paused, breathless and dizzy, sinking to his knees as he thought again of being no worse for wear. "God _damn_ it," he muttered as he ducked out from under the rocky outcropping he'd hunkered down in for the afternoon, his head swimming.

Remembering everything in pieces had been— _still was_ —hard enough; remembering it _all at once_ was _nauseating_.

Not, of course, that he had the mental capacity or the wherewithal to even catalogue it all at once. But he could feel it there, prickling with bright newness, everything that had been his life _before_ , and every moment _after_ , especially clear and painful for his eidetic memory.

Split harshly into two camps by what they'd done to him.

Sometimes— _usually_ , if he was being honest with himself—he felt like what they'd done to him defined his entire life, entire self, that who he'd been before no longer existed.

Steve had been right, though. He was still him.

With an extra shadow.

 _And what do we have here?_

 _Hello, Sergeant Barnes._

He flinched, pushing it down and away.

 _The arm is wasted, Sir. He must have landed on it._

 _No worries. This one is strong. We will give him a new one._

 _You shall be the new fist of HYDRA!_

 _Wipe him._

 _Start over._

Wincing, he gritted his teeth and pushed back onto his feet.

He hadn't come all this way to fall back into that shadow now.

He'd shot Pierce in the chest, shoved his body into a dark closet, locked it, tossed the key, then blown up the entire building.

He _wasn't going back there_.

It was _done_.

He took a step, a painful step, his head pounding mercilessly, then another, then another, until he was peering carefully over the embankment on the beach, letting his old instinct take over, the sniper in him.

One. Two. Three at the front of the property. Combat and close-impact gear.

One. Two at the back.

Small firearms, hard to tell at this distance, even for him.

Vests. Not Kevlar; something else, something better.

Two vehicles, expensive sedans, an M3, and…a Jaguar. New. F-Type.

He catalogued them, then ran them through his mental files, looking to intersect the possibilities for identification and discarded the ones he knew were beneath excess money, no matter how connected they appeared.

He was left with half a dozen potentials.

But at what outcome?

The house had long fallen silent, Darcy's tortured screams now nothing but chilled memories in his conscious mind.

What could they want with her?

The possibilities seemed endless, each one more terrifying than the last, not the least of which was that someone else aimed to repeat what they'd done to him, perhaps with more successful long-term results.

His stomach churning, he pushed those thoughts aside. He could go gooey and lovesick later. The Winter Soldier didn't get his missions done acting like a romantic idiot.

He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes and struggling to find his center, the dark shadow in the middle of it all where he could focus, slide his blinders on and react only.

Anger.

That was the key.

He'd realized, in his sessions with the doc, that though most of the time he hadn't been conscious enough to realize what he was doing, sometimes he was little more than a passenger in his own head. Only anger—anger and vengefulness—had seen him through those few times, until they put him back under.

Bruce had mentioned it more than once—finding a middle ground of low-simmering rage to keep everything else on an even keel.

Anger.

He could do anger.

He had plenty of anger. Some to spare, in fact.

They would see.

((()))

Darcy dreamed.

Or, rather, she thought it might be a dream.

She felt detached from herself, watching things from above, and it took her a long, long moment of swimming before she realized it wasn't a dream; it was a memory—and a particularly strong one, at that.

She observed herself charging into his apartment and throwing— _literally_ —her Michael Kors bag down on the dark suede couch. " _Fucking_ Hell!" she exclaimed.

Bucky came in behind her, calm and quiet, and set his keys on the table by the door.

"We can't even go to the lab?! We've gotta be hounded like two delinquent teenagers that hide out at _food trucks_?!" She threw herself onto the couch and stretched out, scowling, her arms crossed defiantly over her ample chest. At least the Thai fusion had been good…

He smoothed his white tee as he threw himself down on the couch beside her. "You want to get back to _Game of Thrones_?"

" _No_ , I don't wanna get back to _Game of Thrones_!" Darcy snapped. Then she caught herself. "Sorry. That was…directed at Jane, not you."

He shrugged good-naturedly. "No problem, dollface."

She huffed a sigh and sat up to untie the laces on her Keds. "I'm just so tired of this. Like I'm some little kid that keeps getting sent to the corner."

He was silent.

"She's been on me for the past few weeks, all passive aggressive, and judge-y." She rolled her eyes. "Came out of fucking _nowhere_."

He shrugged again. "Evidently she didn't really think this was…a _thing_." He gestured awkwardly between them with his metal hand.

She scoffed. "She's a fucking _astrophysicist_ but she can't see what's in front of her goddamn face. Forgets to _eat_ half the time, subsists on coffee and _poptarts_. If her _head weren't attached_ …" She gestured again. "But _this_ she pays attention to."

He rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "It's not…really a big deal, Darce."

She growled at the knot in her laces, yanking at it and muttering frustrated things under her breath. " _God damn it to Hell_ …"

"Here," he interrupted, sliding his arm into the melee. "Let me." He took her left foot gently in his right palm. "Face me."

Still scowling, she twisted to face him, legs stretching the short length of the loveseat, her successfully bare right foot tucking under his thigh. She knew he could get a good look up her skirt, but didn't care. In fact, she invited it.

With a gentle, anachronistic patience, he carefully loosed the knot and slid the sneaker off, setting the shoe down on the carpet.

"Stupid shoes," she muttered.

His brow rose at a jaunty angle. "Actually, I thought they were pretty cute. But they don't look real reliable." He pressed his slightly callused thumb into the center of the ball of her foot.

She let out a sinful moan before she could bite it back, and eyed him slyly. "Keep that up, Barnes. You're not stupid." Her head tilted back and she settled into the arm of the couch.

He laughed, easy and light. "Wasn't really trying for roguish, but I'll take it."

She snickered.

For a few moments, it was quiet.

"You okay?" he finally asked, voice low and hushed in the room.

She sighed. "No."

He started working his way up her foot, over her ankle, and began a slow crawl up her calf, palming the curve of muscle and kneading it in his hands.

She squirmed, mewling softly. "If you were aiming for a happy ending, you're definitely on the right track," she said, breathlessly.

He smirked. "C'mon. Talk to me, doll."

She scowled. "Don't wanna…"

He gave a soft, husky laugh in the dim dark of the room, the only light coming in from the setting sun through the open drapes on the high windows. "C'mon, Darce. You don't let _me_ hide," he needled.

She huffed, opening her eyes. "You suck, Barnes."

He laughed openly, setting her left leg down and starting on her right.

She squirmed again. " _Damn_ you. _Fine_." She huffed again. "I dunno what I'm supposed to _do_ about this."

"Jane?"  
"I mean, she was my _boss_. Which is _weird_ , because she's not that much older than me. And it's not like she _pays_ me or anything. Then suddenly it's like I'm her _caretaker_. We're friends. _Best_ friends. I mean, I don't think I've had one of those in, like, a decade, at _least_."

He paused. "And?"

"And it's not like I can tell her to ' _fuck off'_. How is _this_ my life? That's not an option. And neither is her—frankly offensive—suggestion that I stop acting like a mulish child and break up with my assassin boyfriend."

A long pause. "You sure?"

Blinking, she sat up to stare at him. "What?"

He refused to make eye contact. "Are you…sure that's not an option?"

She waved her hands around frantically. " _Please_ tell me that wasn't a real question."

He sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, settling uncomfortably in the suede couch cushion. "Not a question so much as an idea. Don't read anything into it—I just put it out there."

"Well, _don't_ ," she snapped, giving him an uncharacteristically sharp look. "Just fucking _don't_."

He sighed again, watching her waving hands with a scowl. "Darcy—" Pausing, he snatched both of her still-aloft hands and forced them to settle in his lap. " _Darcy_ …I can hardly blame them for their hostility, can I?" His metal thumb ran soothing circles along the back of one of her hands. "And it's nothing I wasn't _expecting_."

She let her head slump back with a huff. "That's total bullshit, Barnes. What about _compassion_?" She snarled, raising her head again. "I didn't know that had become so rare."

He gave her a sad smile. "It always has been—trust me. The world wasn't sunshine and lemonade on the front veranda. That's just how 1935 is depicted in your movies."

She frowned. "Really?" She sounded a little heartbroken.

"Really. My father was a world class asshole. That's nothing new that's been invented since the last time I walked around Brooklyn."

"You haven't been back?"

He shrugged. "Not much. Why bother? Everything looks completely different. There's nothing familiar left."

She sighed. "See, that just hurts."

"I think it would bother me more if things _were_ familiar, actually." Another sad smile as he looked down at her hands in his lap. "There are good things here, too."

She shifted closer to him, temporarily extracting a hand and reaching up to brush a soft strand of hair out of his face where it had fallen over his brow. "I just want them to understand."

He shook his head. "They _can't_. How _can_ they? Darcy, what happened to me is science _fiction_. It's only scientific _theory_. How can they _possibly_ accept it all at face value?"

"But that _doesn't matter_ if you didn't know what you were doing!" she insisted.

"And how can I _prove_ that, doll?"

She gave him another scowl. " _Why_ would you _possibly_ try to kill your best friend if you were in your right mind?"

Another shrug. "That doesn't matter to them."

"Well, it _should_! You _didn't know what you were doing_!"

"And that makes it _worse_ , sweetheart."

The affectionate word gave her pause and she blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. He'd not yet called her anything other than _Darcy, Darce_ , or _Doll_. The appearance of a term of much more ardent endearment made it harder than usual to swallow the reply, the affirmation that she'd kept forcing down lately—the sharp suspicion in the back of her mind that she'd fallen hopelessly, _boundlessly_ in love with him already.

Given his condition, she'd been hoping it was just early stage infatuation and that it might fade, or go away.

It hadn't.

It had only gotten stronger.

And she wondered, if she said it, would it chase him away?

He sighed again, shifting his hands to caress her wrist. "I almost killed Steve, Darcy. My best friend. I almost killed _my best friend_. Is _not_ knowing what I was doing better or worse than knowing and still acting? Either way, I'm the enemy. At worst, I'm a HYDRA plant, at best I'm—what? An unstable factor in an already precarious structure—a group of rambunctious, suspicious, and tired people who go through their lives within wildly realized abilities. Here I am— _a bipolar assassin with a metal arm_ and a handful of triggers that, to them, makes me bound to snap at any one moment."

She chewed on her lip, gently turning her wrists over for him to continue, digging his calloused thumbs in on the underside and massaging the sore points left from her typing. But she was silent.

"I can't ask them to forgive that. I can't ask them to accept it, and I can't ask them to just pretend it away, Darcy. I _won't_ ask them to do that."

She nodded, swallowing and continuing to look down at their hands. "I know."

" _Nothing_ can undo what I did. _Nothing_ can mend that. I can't make it right and I can't take it back, no matter how brainwashed I was. _Those people are still dead_ , Darcy."

She shrugged sadly. "I suppose I was hoping for some sort of…empathy, considering the fact that you have to live with that knowledge, now. That's all."

He gave her another sad smile. "Empathy, dollface, has gone the same direction as compassion. And I can't promise that I wouldn't react any differently, were I in their shoes."

She finally looked up at him, finding the melancholy in his deep blue eyes. "You would. You're a good man, Sergeant Barnes."

The ghost of a charming smirk. "I ain't a sergeant anymore, babe."

She gave a soft laugh. "Oh, I'm ' _babe'_ now, huh?"

He shrugged. "Thought I'd try it out."

She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

He leaned in to kiss her, murmuring. "I like how it fits…"

"What do you think she's dreaming about?"

Slowly, the vision-slash-dream faded to gray, and she floated for an indeterminate amount of time, just barely conscious enough to pick out the voices around her.

"Probably him."

She frowned. That voice. That one was particularly familiar.

"Which _him_ are we talking about?"

"The one that doesn't know he's been had."

There was a pause. "So, the Winter Soldier's had the wool pulled over his eyes at last, hm? Hard to believe."

"Are you saying you don't trust me, Killian?" the voice asked, her tone wry and coy.

"Oh, I _don't_ trust you. Thought that was obvious."

"It was. Just as much as the reverse."

Aldrich laughed, open and light, carefree. "Is he still out on the beach?"

"He crawled off to lick his wounds a couple of hours ago."

"Make sure you keep an eye on him. If I can make this a package deal, all the better."

"There's something you should know, Aldrich."

"And what's that, Miss Romanoff?"

A warning bell distantly trilled somewhere in Darcy's mind, but she wasn't aware enough to wonder why.

"Drunken dalliance aside, she's painfully loyal to him. You won't get your hands on him through her. And, truth be told, he won't be so easy to catch as a butterfly in a net."

" _No_? I thought he was, uh, pretty much down for the count."

" _Down for the count_ for James Barnes is still _half_ what it would be for anyone else."

"So, what does that mean, then?"

"That means you've cornered a starving wolf. And a starving wolf lashes out—unpredictable and ten times as deadly."

"So, he was a _domesticated puppy_ before?"

Natasha gave a dry, emotionless laugh. " _No_ , Killian. He's stripped down. You wanted a killer? _You got one_."


	8. Chapter 8: Wings

Chapter 8: Wings

Summary: In which things are getting angsty and tired.

Notes: Hey, guys! I'm back with Chapter Eight. I hope you guys had a great weekend. I don't think any of us wanna go back to work, so I figured maybe the next best thing would be to post a chapter. The only thing that I've been looking forward to is Sherlock finally being back, and yet the only downside of that is that it's on Sunday night. I think PBS did that on purpose. Anyway, here we are, Chapter Eight. This one's chock full of more angst and more flashbacks. I know at least one of you mentioned (maybe that was on FF) that this was getting long. I hope that's not the case for most of you. I figure, if you're gonna do a kidnap fic, unless there's going to be a substantial development, you've gotta take your time and make it count. It there's a rescue right away, then what's the point, right? But, that being said, don't worry, those of you who are feeling impatient. We are, in fact, getting there. Then there's some other stuff I wanna do. I didn't set out with this already written, so this is kind of taking me on it's own ride, just for fun. So, after that long-windedness, here we go. Please let me know what you think! Your feedback is helpful, insightful, and wonderful! Chapter title taken from the song by Birdie. It's just such a bittersweet, melancholy, wistful sort of song, it seemed appropriately angsty. Have fun! MLChick

((()))

The blond doctor appeared, deceptively small, Natasha thought, unconcerned overall, but perfectly willing to add her to her list of threats. Perhaps she was just threatening in _other ways_ —like that needle she was brandishing, easily the size of a pen. "Is she stable?"

Killian shrugged. "You tell me—you're the doctor."

The woman crouched in front of Darcy, and Natasha had to ignore the impulse to attack her while her back was turned, such an easy opening—just there, _right at the base of her skull_ —

"Pulse is weak and thread-y."

"Go ahead anyway."

Natasha's heart lurched. _God_ , if Bucky could see her looking like this, he'd black out, he'd be so furious. She idly wondered if he could be strong enough to rip someone's heart straight out…He could just claw under the sternum with that creepy metal hand…

But the doctor didn't argue, sticking Darcy in the crease of her elbow. "If I'm right, and I've isolated the strain as sensitive to the release of adrenaline, this should act as a catalyst."

Killian was grim. "I do hope you're right."

For a few moments, nothing happened, and Natasha tried to calm her rapid pulse, the spike of fear and foreboding bearing down on her. She still hadn't been able to ferret out just what they were doing and why, but this…this was a major clue.

They clearly thought to utilize what had happened to her, what amounted, in the long run, to an accidental needle stick. She shuddered, but luckily Killian didn't notice.

Then Darcy jerked, her eyes snapping open emptily and landing on Natasha.

She jumped—this time Killian noticed. "Little nervous, there, Widow?"

She didn't reply. Not because she was frightened, but because she didn't trust her mouth to conceal her cover, didn't trust herself not to sucker punch him with sharp consonants and a hook to the throat, knew she didn't have the cover or the strength to drag Darcy—chair and all—out of the house and gone.

Not for the first time in her life, she felt like a caged animal.

Darcy blinked, once, twice, zeroing in on Natasha's face, the open shock visible to all three of them. But she was silent.

"It's working," the doctor said, fingers on Darcy's pulse.

Killian took a step back. "Good job."

Blushing, the pretty blond dipped her head and straightened. "I'll be in back—I'm monitoring her vitals remotely."

Aldrich nodded, then took another step back, and another, his face on Natasha. "Here's your chance. She's all yours, Ms. Romanoff."

She gave him what she hoped was a skeptical look.

He smiled, then, a long, slow, predatory smile. "Don't worry. Now that we have a game plan, you can't do worse to her than we will later." And he winked, and walked out.

Natasha stared after him for a moment, totally and completely shocked—which was saying something for her.

Then Darcy whimpered, low and keening, face squeezing into a pained scowl as she turned her head away.

When she was absolutely sure that Killian and the doctor were gone, she was very careful to take her time to the back table, where the doctor had placed a bowl of water and a washcloth that morning after cleaning the cold sweat off of Darcy's forehead. Whatever they'd given her overnight had made her feverish, and she'd watched from a dark corner until she couldn't stay upright anymore as her friend drifted on dreams and hazy hallucinations. The knowledge that Darcy hadn't been trained to resist or withstand any sort of torture—even working for SHIELD in her capacity—was heavy in Natasha's mind.

She very carefully wandered back over, digging deep to keep from rushing desperately, twisting her stubborn, fear-stricken face to look vaguely vindictive, unsure what she could possibly risk saying, if she should say anything at all, if Darcy would even hear or comprehend.

She set the bowl down on the floor and soaked the cloth, wringing it out, and setting it to Darcy's right hand first, the skin on her wrist red and splotchy where she'd struggled futilely against AIM's futuristic cuffs.

She gasped, jerking against the rough washcloth, looking up at her. "Tasha…" she whispered.

"It's me," she murmured back, under her breath, just barely low enough to hear, but she knew Darcy's senses had sharpened over the past few months with her strange, half-assed serum. She took a breath, trying to calm her temper. "Sshhh. I don't want them to hear us."

Her breathing was shallow and low. "He's…he's dead, Tasha. He's supposed to be dead."

Clearly, she meant Aldrich Killian. Working for Tony had only made the curious girl _more_ curious. "I know." She hoped the doctor wouldn't be back, and kept her ears alert. "Clearly, Stark and Potts didn't do a thorough enough job."

Darcy winced, then scowled, then winced again at the facial expression. "Oh, _God_ , Tasha…" she groaned.

Natasha clenched her jaw shut, wishing to Hell that Bucky was here—Steve for that matter—someone big and strong, predictable and level-headed, someone _not her_. James Barnes was _seriously_ better equipped to handle this situation. "Can you tell what they're doing to you?"

Her head tipped forward and her friend's dark hair obscured her face. She swallowed. "Not sure. They're hunting and pecking for a trigger for my episodes. They…keep triggering them on purpose." She swallowed again, and shuddered. "Each time is worse than the last—oh, _God_ , it feels like my skin is _melting off_ …"

Natasha was glad at least one of them was partially hidden. "I know, Darce. I'm gonna get you out of here, but you've got to play along, okay? You just have to wait."

She shuddered again. "Where's Jamie? I _need_ Jamie."

She flinched. The question she didn't want to answer. And the pet name that made her heart hurt. No one else _dared_ call him that. "I'm not sure. Around." She couldn't lie, not to that aching vulnerability in Darcy's voice. Natasha—having had more than enough experience with Steve—knew that Bucky likely had just a certain soothing way of coaxing her through these moments that she just couldn't possibly have now.

She suppressed another shudder, her back arching along the chair. "Around _where_?"

She huffed silently. "I don't know, Darcy. They've got a force field around the property. But he's out there, on the other side of it. You know how he is. He won't be kept down for long. He's coming."

A silent tear slipped down her face. "If he's not dead."

Natasha reached up to quickly brush it away, knowing it had more to do with her silent physical suffering than any real fear for her husband's life. "The Winter Soldier's hard to kill, Darce. He'll tear a hole in reality to get to you if he has to."

"Tear down the fucking world…" she murmured.

Natasha switched to her friend's other hand. "What?"

But Darcy was lost again in the pain. "Mm…" She tightened her hands into fists—

And the clamps shifted.

Stilled in place, Natasha could only crouch there, like an idiot, wide-eyed. "Darcy…?"

If her friend could've curled into herself anymore, she'd have been a tiny ball. But she didn't respond.

And as Natasha watched, Darcy's manacles held tight.

But nothing more happened.

She narrowed her eyes. "How you feeling Darce?"

She received another groan of pain.

Natasha stroked the cloth along her forehead, smoothing the hair that had become stuck by the sweat on her brow. "I'm doing my best. But I can't make a move yet. I have to bide my time. But while I'm here you have to make sure you play along okay? _Seriously_. It could be life or death."

A small whimper that sounded in the affirmative.

Movement caught her out of the corner of her eye. "Like right now."

Another shudder.

Wincing internally and bracing herself, she pulled back her arm and drew it viciously across her friend's face in a violent backhanded slap.

Darcy's head jerked to the side as far as it could go, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth where she'd likely caught her teeth.

Guilt flooded her, but she suppressed it as best she could, sliding her persona back on like a cold cloak. " _Bitch_ ," she snarled, dumping the water at Darcy's feet and stalking off, past Killian, lurking in the hallway with a guarded look. "She's all yours," she added sharply, shouldering past him roughly as she spilled out—finally—into the open air of the front drive, taking a deep, desperate breath of fresh beach air.

Another memory overtook her, then, with surprising ease, the first time Natasha had felt more than a passing interest in her friend.

Hoping to hunt down Steve while he was alone and commandeer him for lunch, she'd been skirting along the lower levels, puzzling out that he must have been working near the labs that day for whatever reason. Unable to find him, she'd wandered for a while, up and down corridors, hemming and hawing the pros and cons of just flat out asking someone if they'd seen him and whether or not it would be worth raising potential curiosity.

…"Wait, so you're really, like, _seeing_ each other?"

A long pause from the room that usually housed Foster, the astrophysicist, and her loud, boisterous intern, Darcy, Steve's friend. "Well, we got lunch. I thought that was sort of implied."

The clank of machinery. "Well, I mean, lunch is just _lunch_. I mean, it doesn't mean there's, like… _dating_ going on, like going steady…?"

Darcy snorted. " _'Going steady'_? What are you— _fourteen_?"

A chuckle that sounded distinctly like Steve.

"Yes. We're dating. There. Happy?"

Another long pause, and Natasha wondered if Steve was trying to edge out of the room. Captain America didn't do awkward girl conversations. "Well. No. Not particularly."

Another snort, this one more feminine in tone.

"What?" Jane's voice sharpened.

Darcy chuckled. "Nothing. It's just that that's awfully rich, coming from _you_."

Natasha, curious by nature, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned against the hallway wall, letting her serum-enhanced hearing do the work for her.

"'Coming from _me_?'"

Darcy sighed loudly. "Yeah, coming from you, Jane-y—"

"Don't go all 'Jane-y' on me! You're seriously _dating_ him?!"

"I didn't know I needed your _permission_."

"What happened to Ian?"

Another snort. "Oh, _puh-lease_. He went high-tailing it back to Greenwich to finish his degree."

"So?"

"So, _what_?"

A loud, long-suffering sigh. "Oh, my God, Darcy, how is this so hard to understand? Do you know how _dangerous_ he is?"

"Sure. When you piss him off or end up on the wrong end of SHIELD."

"You mean _HYDRA_."

"No, I mean _SHIELD_ —or what's left of it, anyway."

"Darcy, he's a _brainwashed assassin_!"

"Correction: he _was_ a brainwashed assassin."

A derisive hiss. "And what does that make him _now_?"

"A seriously damaged teddy bear with _gorgeous_ eyes and a _really_ tight ass."

A long, long pause. Then another sigh. "Darcy…"

"What?" There it was. Just an edge of…no, it wasn't defensiveness. Something else…possession? "I _work_ for you, remember? I graduated, and you're finally paying me enough from your grant that I can eat more every night for dinner than Ramen."

Steve cut in. "Darce, why didn't you say something? I've got enough back pay to go around…"

But he was ignored. "That makes you my _boss_ , Jane. Not my _mother_."

Jane sighed again. "I just worry about you, Darcy."

"Why? I'm perfectly safe with him." She made a 'pshaw' sort of sound, like she was waving her hand carelessly. "He's a softie—you just can't tell because he doesn't say much."

"To you?" asked Jane wryly.

Darcy made an impatient noise. "No, to _you_ , you Grumpasaurus. He talks my fucking ear off when he feels like it. Maybe he'd do that more often with other people if they didn't all treat him like a goddamn pariah. Take a Xanax and chill, girl. So my boyfriend's a mercenary. We can't all be perfect astrophysicists, now, can we?"

Another, lower, scoff. "God, you're so impulsive and naïve."

Now, the silence wasn't a pause so much as a pregnant zap of electricity.

"Wait. _Me_ —impulsive? _Naïve_?"

Steve cleared his throat. "Maybe we should all take a coffee break?"

Natasha smirked at his shaky, nervous tone.

" _You're_ calling _me_ impulsive? _You_?"

Natasha edged closer and ducked into the room, out of notice on the far end.

"You remember that one time where you made out with a _Norse Space God_ after knowing him for _two days_ , right? I'm not _imagining_ that, am I?" Darcy stood at the other end of the steel lab table, arms crossed over her ample chest, staring at Jane.

Foster was hunkered down at the computer in the corner, desk chair turned to face her, but she hadn't bothered getting up.

Both women wore looks of anger and challenge.

Natasha would have to put the edge on Darcy. The girl was tenacious, if nothing else, and Steve described her as thick-skinned and tough, level-headed, if prone to mild flights of fancy.

"Darcy—"

"I mean, am I wrong in thinking that Thor could tear the building down on top of us, or no? Because if I _am_ —if you're German boy toy isn't deadlier than The Winter Soldier—I concede the argument."

Jane—usually so flighty and distractible in Natasha's memory—rolled her eyes. "Oh, please—at least Thor is _sane_."

Steve turned, frowning. "Hey!"

"Darcy."

Even Natasha jumped as they all turned to find the man in question standing in the doorway. It sent a chill up her spine that she hadn't even heard him approach. He was silent as a panther when he wanted to be, and since he likely could hear their conversation clear as a bell from all the way down the hall, he'd likely approached with caution.

"That's debatable," Darcy said, turning back to Jane. "I love him, Jane-y, but let's be honest. His brother was a few crayons short of a box and Thor just up and let him out of Asgardian prison so they could gallivant across the known universe like it was nothing."

Now Jane stood, rounding on her friend with a dark look. "To save _me_. You weren't there, Darcy. You didn't see how that stone worked."

Darcy threw her arms up. "No! No, I _wasn't_ there! I was in London, cleaning up after you, just like I _always_ do! I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to figure out what happened to you, if you were okay, and what the fuck I was supposed to do next! And don't forget that I was there, in Greenwich that day when you all came storming back in, minus Loki. I saw the Aether at work, I placed those rods for you, I almost died, too, Jane! All because _you_ had to be impulsive around dangerous science-y things!"

Jane stared. "There was a _magnetic anomaly_!"

"Which means we call for _backup_ , we don't go running around like it's an episode of _Doctor Who_!" She huffed. "This is beside the point. The point is, I am not the only impulsive person in this room. I think all of us— _all_ of use—could be called impulsive at certain points in the past."

Steve pulled a face, but Natasha raised an eyebrow at him and Bucky snorted. "Not on your life, Rogers."

Jane rolled her eyes again. "So this occasion requires you to make out with any crazy HYDRA mercenary you meet?!"

Darcy put her hands on her hips. "Again— _not_ my mother, Jane, and never mind that that phrase makes me sound like a teenager."

Jane snorted. "Well, you're _acting_ like one."

"By doing _what_?"

"Putting yourself in danger for a little childish fun!"

"Darcy," Bucky cut in again, his voice pitched low and soothing. "It's no big deal. Let's just go to lunch, doll."

Jane winced at the pet name.

Darcy held up a hand. "No. No, this _is_ a big deal. Apparently I'm grown up enough to handle your complicated equations and algorithms, but _not_ grown up enough to have an _adult_ relationship. _Stop the presses_. Jane, you do know I'm a hacker, right? You do know that I could run circles around all those clerks upstairs, right?"

Jane sighed. "Yeah. Why do you think I wanted to keep you around? You're my friend—you're fantastic at your job!"

"Well, which is it, Foster?! I can't be _both_."

The doctor pulled a hand down her face. "I just want you to not be stupid."

Darcy jerked her head back. "Oh, and now I'm being _stupid_?"

In an uncharacteristic show of anger, Jane slammed her fist down onto the metal lab table, her voice rising. " _Yes_! You're being _stupid_! He's unstable, he's crazy, he's an enemy spy, he could snap you in half like a twig and I think you're _dumb_ for tangling with him for a little attention. I _will not_ be there to scrape you up off the pavement the next time he snaps!"

Darcy took an involuntary step back, her face open and shocked, like she'd been slapped.

It was silent. The large room echoed for a moment.

"Jane."

They turned.

Thor stood, filling out the doorway rather well, in jeans and an unbuttoned plaid flannel, open over a white t-shirt, his hair tied back in a neat bun with a strand loose beside his bright blue eyes. His face was disapproving, like he'd caught a child in his care climbing the kitchen counter to dump a plate of cookies all over the floor. "That is unkind."

Jane didn't look half as mollified as Natasha thought she should've, personally. She wasn't sure what she thought of James yet, either, but it was clear he was well on his way to recovery, even if he mostly kept to the skirts of their groups, visibly uncomfortable and a little grouchy. She rather thought he'd earned the right to be a little grouchy and he hadn't done anything threatening in the entire time he'd been there.

"James is healing. You have no place to act as judge and jury, and he has shown nothing but strength of character since his arrival, nor have I noted him acting in any way untoward with our fair Darcy."

Jane's mouth dropped open. "You _knew_?!"

But Thor was staunch. "It has not been a secret, my love."

Jane huffed, looking away.

And Thor's voice fell just a little, losing its hard, scolding edge and softening as he glanced at Bucky, leaning against the wall beside the doorway, looking, for all the world, casual and uncaring. But his eyes were tight, ruining the illusion if you paid close attention. "A warrior's battles do not stop just because he has stepped off the battlefield. I might suggest a touch of empathy, my love."

Now Jane flushed, swallowing hard.

But Darcy had heard enough, snatching her purse from the shelf under the lab table and turning on her heel, already heading for the door. "Lunch. Right. There's a Thai food truck just a couple blocks down, if you want? They do a great fusion taco." she addressed Bucky specifically, forcibly not looking at anyone else.

Bucky straightened, placing a hand at the small of her back. "Sounds good." And they maneuvered around Thor on their way out, Darcy reaching out subtly to brush a hand along his shoulder in acknowledgement of his determination and support.

And they were gone.

((()))

"So, this guy is just some crazed lunatic inventor with a hard-on for Stark Industries? That's what you're saying?"

Wanda frowned reproachfully at the new Mr. Scott Lang. "Must you be so crude, Mr. Lang?"

Scott flushed and looked down, but his mouth refused the maneuver, and a small smirk appeared. "Sorry. Habit. I'm not…usually around…many other women…" he finished, flagging off lamely.

Tony rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Everyone here?" He glanced around the table. "Rambo, Psychic, Legolas, Mantis Bait, Sane Brother, Jolly Green…okay. Let's get started." He shuffled his papers and gestured up at the slideshow display of the eel bots they'd defeated earlier in the week. "Yeah, this one Mr…"—he frowned at the top paper—"Matthew Lukasic, he's a nut job. I don't think there's anything there to worry about. I checked out his tech. Low-grade, total amateur."

Maria—sitting in the corner—flipped a few pages in her file. "So…moving on to other matters?"

Tony barely suppressed another eye roll. "Yes, Ms. Hill. Flyboy?" He gestured at Sam, sitting at his left. "You've got the floor."

Sam sat up. "Right. Uh. So, by now, you've all met Scott."

Scott waved. "Or 'Tic-Tac', I guess." He shrugged.

"Why 'Tic-Tac'?" Clint inquired.

Scott chuckled. "Well, it's actually kind of a funny story—"

"That we don't have to tell today," Sam cut him off with a tight smile. "No big deal, really, guys. Scott here said he could lend us a hand for a little while, while Darcy and Buck are gone. He's in town with Pym for a conference on molecular shifts and thought he might have a little spare time."

Scott smiled again. "Just think of me as 'on call'."

Tony smiled back. "Good."

"Wait—Pym. Like, _Hank_ Pym? _Doctor_ Hank Pym?!" Clint cut in again.

Scott knew he'd caught their attention. "Yep—that's him."

Steve sat in the very corner, beside Maria, his concentration flagging. He hadn't been able to sleep the night before at all, some gut feeling telling him that things with Natasha were about to come to a head, and he didn't dare miss her call.

But she hadn't called.

And now his head was pounding as he tried to focus, a strong memory drifting through his exhausted mind.

"So, you and Natasha?"

He looked up from Darcy's threadbare couch, balancing his beer on his knee. "Huh?"

Darcy snorted indelicately. "Oh, like you didn't hear me, super soldier." She nudged his propped knee on her way past and flopped down next to him, snatching up the remote as she took a pull off her own beer. "Come on, _Stevie_ —spill."

He winced at Bucky's nickname. "Ugh, God, I should never have introduced you two."

She rolled her eyes. "You _didn't_. Don't take all the credit, Rogers. I introduced myself the day he came in."

His brows rose. " _The day he came in_? Was someone there with you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Puh-lease, Captain Tightpants, he's not a chainsaw wielding serial killer. He looked sad, so I sat down. Good thing I did too—how else was I gonna find out how great a kisser he was?"

He bristled. "See, that just makes me uncomfortable."

She gave him a funny look. "What—us dating? Why?"

He shrugged. "I…I dunno. It's just…it's just weird. He was _never_ held down—by _anything_ , Darcy. That's just the kinda guy Buck is."

She gestured with her beer bottle. "You mean, the kinda guy he _was_. Right?"

He hesitated.

She sighed, softening. "Steve. Come on. You can't expect him to be the same guy."

He hesitated again, shrugged.

"Steve, you _know_ what he went through— _Hell_. That brand of awful leaves a mark. He's not the Bucky you grew up with anymore. I mean, deep down, he's still the same, but…you can't expect the small things to still be there."

He looked down at his beer, the lime bobbing lazily around. "I know."

"Doesn't mean he's not still your best friend. That much hasn't changed."

"It's just _weird_ —I've never seen him… _attached_." It'd been odd, too, not spending Christmas with a huge crowd. He and his mother had always spent the holiday with his extended family—a total _circus_ of people—and it was strange, him being here, but in…what felt like the wrong context.

Just him and Natasha and their little fake tree in his apartment.

She smiled. "He's takin' me to the museum next week."

"The Met? I hear that's fun." His friend had always been a bit of a geek underneath it all—not that there'd really been a word for it then. Maybe that was why they'd gotten along so well. After all, Steve still had a drawing he was working on of Natasha back at his apartment. Then he grinned. "We doubled for the Stark Expo, once upon a time."

She gave him a wry look. "Wasn't much of a double, from what I heard…"

He huffed, shifting uncomfortably. "Oh, _God_ …See— _this_ was what I meant."

She giggled, shoving him in one shoulder, not that it did anything to move him. "God, Steve—a few months ago, you were talking about us being good together, and now it makes you uncomfortable?"

He flushed a bright red and studied his beer bottle again, wondering if she'd patched things up with Doctor Foster. "…I know. It's just… _saying_ it is different from… _seeing_ it."

She snorted. "God, you talk like I'm climbing him like a fucking jungle gym, Rogers!"

He eyed her, dressing her down with his gaze.

Finally, she huffed, broken. "Okay, _fine_ —but only in private, you jerkface."

He grinned. But it slowly slid off his face as he thought of Natasha's words on New Year's. "It seems serious…"

Now it was her turn to blush, looking away, her demeanor shrinking and softening, warmth in her eyes. "I don't know if it is for _him_ …"

Steve studied her. "But it is for _you_." It wasn't a question.

She shrugged, a clear indicator. "He um…" She chewed her lower lip. "He…he said it."

He cocked his head. "Said what?"

She just looked at him.

His brows went up all on their own at the implication of three little words that, strung together, had a way of making up the entire world. " _Really_?"

She nodded.

He blinked, trying to sort it out. Lord knew why Bucky had ever bothered with him; Steve had never discovered why Bucky had ever given him the time of day.

But he didn't mention that; he also didn't mention his suspicion that it was serious for his friend in return, especially if he'd said that. Bucky _never_ said that—Steve wasn't sure he'd _ever_ heard the words leave his mouth. Only the implication. Actions spoke louder than words, after all. But a certain expression the other day—movie night—had been a dead giveaway, something Steve had spent that night hemming and hawing while Natasha slept beside him, facing him on her side, one hand on his belly, the dark polish on her nails glinting in the shaft of moonlight streaking in through the drapes.

Bucky only reserved that expression for two people. A soft tilt of the brows, warmth in the eyes, a little rueful curve to his mouth.

Steve, to a certain capacity, in that—contrary to what the recent blogs were saying—they were _not_ gay lovers.

And Becca.

Steve tried not to think about Becca—or the idea that she might still be alive somewhere—very often. It made his heart ache, a solid reminder of who they'd been, before HYDRA, before SHIELD, before Peggy, and Hitler, and Zola, and…

Bucky had only looked at the two of them that way.

They'd been a tight little group, the three of them. The various girls Bucky was casual with had never succeeded in breaking through the hard molding that surrounded them, especially when Buck's pop was drinking and Sarah was sick, especially during the coming of the War.

But Darcy.

He'd turned to give the girl a chiding look as he brushed thrown popcorn missiles from his collar, and caught Bucky with that look on his face, walls down, expression open, warm, tender in a way Steve hadn't ever recalled seeing.

And it gave him pause.

Bucky, for all his suave smoothness, for all his bravado, his skill, his confidence, was guarded. He always had been, and it had always seemed to Steve to stem from his father and their tumultuous relationship. He'd never trusted easily, _never_ —Steve suspected—truly even trusted himself.

George Barnes had been cantankerous at the best of times, a reluctant and bitter undertaker, but when he drank, he was a cruel beast, using sharp words where he wouldn't use his fists, and Steve had always been acutely afraid of him.

Bucky hadn't, had only met fire with fire. But that had taken its toll as well.

Only Winnie had been able to calm him from those moods. And it had shown in later years, never more clearly than when Bucky had moved out, after Sarah's death, after that awful afternoon, the funeral, Bucky's little white lies…

 _We can put the couch cushions on the floor like we did when we were kids…C'mon…_

You could hardly have a nostalgic sleepover when you had no home.

HYDRA had done him no favors in the years since the War. They'd plucked a particularly sensitive string and promptly frayed it further. He wondered how much Darcy knew, how much he'd told her.

But he hadn't looked guarded the other night.

He wondered, not for the first time, just what Darcy had done to so thoroughly turn him around.

Maybe, he thought, she hadn't done anything, really.

Maybe the powers that be—no matter how his faith had waned—had done it for her.

"So…you and Tasha? All this time, you've been tapping that?"

He winced again, pulled from his musings. "You sound like a guy."

She snorted. "Sorry, was that _unladylike_ of me?" She nudged his foot again. "Spill."

He sighed. "No."

She looked sneaky and entirely too mischievous. " _'No'_ , you _weren't_ tapping it or ' _no'_ , you won't spill?"

"Take your pick, Lewis." He was relieved that they'd decided not to get rings yet.

She threw her head back and laughed, loudly and in that boisterous, Darcy way. "Oh, man, he wasn't kidding. You _so are_."

He scowled as he felt the blush rise up his face, betraying him. "What?"

She got up and went to the sink, filling her empty beer bottle, swishing it around. "He said you couldn't lie for shit. He was _totally_ right."

He huffed, glad to be distracted by more frustration. "Shut up, Darcy."

She gasped, hand to her heart. "Oh, that's just _vulgar_ coming from Captain America."

He snorted.

She pulled out a cabinet and dumped the beer bottle into the recycling bin inside. "Whatever. You two are perfect for each other. She's the bad cop, and you're the good cop."

He understood this reference, and so only had to roll his eyes again. "Darcy…"

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him as she crossed back to the couch, her eyes lit up. "Imagine how _badass_ it would be if you switched it up?!"

Taking the probably-not-on-purpose bait, he cocked a brow. "What?"

She flopped down next to him again and set her feet across his lap. "You know—if she, like, went undercover, all 'good guy' and you went in and freaked the shit out of people and went all, 'Creepy Captain America'? That would be fucking _awesome_!"

That was it.

He shot up out of his chair, lunging from the memory and back into the present. "Bad cop," he said, out loud, jumping when he placed himself back in the conference room—

Where everyone was staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Uh."

Tony raised a brow, all pretense gone from his usually snarky face. "You okay, Steve-O?"

He blinked, jerking his thoughts back into order, and promptly blushing. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm good. I'm good. I just…" He gestured, already moving for the door. "There's just something I remembered I have to do."

((()))

He was watching them.

She knew he was.

He was out there, somewhere, watching them, hidden in the shadows, melting into the deep dark of the in-betweens and becoming part of them, watching them, waiting.

Even knowing him the way she did, Natasha shivered in her black gear, clenching her jaw shut as she stood later in front of the window. Killian—like all the rest of the nefarious bastards out there—underestimated the Winter Soldier for the formidable foe he was. They all thought he was a dog that could be brought to heel, when really he was a vicious fighter. And when he was scared—in this case, desperate to protect Darcy—he was even more ruthless. Having all his faculties almost made him scarier than he'd been without them.

He was sharper, had laser focus.

Natasha wasn't sure why that was—perhaps motivation had done the trick. After all, if someone had taken Steve from her, she had no doubt she'd sink into her alternate persona, blinders on, tunnel vision, ready to kill whoever got in the way of her retrieving her mate unharmed.

And Bucky was easily _twice_ the fighter she was.

Motivation to get himself back— _all_ of him—motivation had driven him to right the balance he'd struck out at, snapping its supports in the name of an organization he'd sworn to fight nearly eighty years ago.

She blinked. Good God, Pearl Harbor was seventy-five years gone.

She sighed internally, not daring the sound out loud, where anyone might hear.

This was precarious. _All of it_.

Bucky, in an unquantifiable condition after being zapped by whatever digital wall the blond doctor had been maintaining was especially worrisome. She didn't know her name; she hadn't been introduced to anyone.

She trusted Bucky, though. She liked him. He had become her friend over the past year. The four of them had settled into a strange, surreal sort of domestic normalcy. She and Steve would bring takeout and they'd watch a movie. They'd meet at a random little pub in Manhattan. She'd come to know him very well, his mannerisms, his sense of humor, his facial expressions…the way he loved Darcy. Quietly. But _desperately_. Without limit, despite his reservations. With humor, and enthusiasm, with loose, carefree happiness— _finally_ , carefree. Or, mostly so, anyway.

Still.

All the same, she couldn't gauge his mental condition any more than _Bruce_ could, totally clueless back in New York. He could be huddled under some patch of molten outcropping there, on the shore, shuddering and amnesiac all over again.

She had a feeling, though…she could feel him out there, feel his presence. They were of strangely like minds, she and Bucky, in a different way than she and Darcy. She understood him—sometimes she thought she understood him better than _Steve_ did. At least, she knew she understood _this_ Bucky better than Steve understood him. Steve, of course, had known the _Other_ Bucky, the _Before Bucky_ , the _Then Bucky_. _This Bucky_ —he wasn't the same man—and while no one seemed to understand him better than Darcy did, Natasha could tell he was out there, just awaiting his moment, gathering information, forcing himself to think of all this as just another set of striking maneuvers.

It was what she would do.

She felt guilty, though, just standing here, letting Steve dangle.

And Tony.

She swallowed again, pushing down on the widening sense of that guilt in her gut for wanting to do this her way.

Tony would be blinded, too blinded to be of use.

Then again, maybe she underestimated him, underestimated his genius and how it might apply to someone he thought of as…as a daughter. She realized, then, that maybe she'd slipped. Maybe she didn't understand this new Tony as well as she thought she had, or as well as she had a few years ago, when she was no one but Natalie Rushman and he was just another spoiled billionaire, running around, doing whatever he wanted. When really, he'd been dying, staring his own mortality in the face.

Something in her panged at the thought and again, she fought the urge to crawl into a hole, cry, and call Steve just to hear his voice.

God, if this was even a _fraction_ of what Darcy was feeling…she couldn't stand it.

Couldn't bloody _stand_ it.

So she stepped out of the house with trepidation but more relief than fear. Finally, after her show that afternoon, appearing torn and furious, Killian had given her the go-ahead to check the area for the other part of their prey.

Smirking at the assumption that he'd be easy for them to bring in—and not like a provoked _African bull elephant_ , considering they were currently _torturing_ his wife—she began down the rocky Hawaiian slope.

((()))

His head hadn't pounded like this since—he blinked—since March of '43, when Zola had had him strapped to a table. The fact that he could now pinpoint the exact moment in time with a relatively smooth, ordinary amount of clarity was a little arresting, and he sat for a moment, lost in the mire of memory, touch, and smell, a time so long past, he felt it slip by all over again, his chest going tight with loss.

He clenched his jaw shut at the sharp spiking pain in his throbbing temple, keeping pace with his pulse. He hoped it cleared up by dark. He was looking to make a move of some sort. Full dark and he'd be safe to go in and work on taking out their exterior support, drop the guards and wait for their reaction, see if he couldn't find a way into the house.

Of course, this was assuming that, upon taking out the ground support, he'd be able to ferret out the device that kept up the force field around the house.

If his head kept at it like this, though, he wouldn't be able to move, let alone get his girl out of that fucking house.

For a moment, he let himself turn bitter with the idea that they could be in the Hamptons right now, relaxing poolside and watching the sun go down on their private beach.

But he snorted. He wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself. He knew better. Hadn't he learned after all his decades of service? The bad guys were _everywhere_. There _was_ no escape, no matter where you went or how fast you ran.

Sighing, he let his head tilt back against the little cave surface of his hidey-hole. Never. He'd _never_ be free. And now, neither would Darcy.

Something shifted outside.

Raising his head, he paused—holding his breath—waiting.

There it was again.

Moving. Someone was moving on the sand outside, not making much effort to be quiet.

Well, damn it if they thought they'd get the jump on him just because he was a little worse for wear. Scowling, he curled his hands into fists and carefully shifted his body out of the shore pocket he'd found, counting down in his head and slowing his breathing, just the way he'd been doing for what felt like forever.

3, 2…1—

He lunged out onto the shoreline in one fluid whip, making clean contact with whoever it was and throwing them back a few steps, although—he noticed—not off their feet.

Or rather… _her_ feet.

He blinked. "Tasha?!"

The tangle of red and black managed to straighten with a gasp, then a small grown, until Natasha's pale face caught the gathering moonlight and she looked up at him with a certain amount of trepidation. This caused him to mentally backpedal a step or two. Natasha hadn't ever looked at him like that, not once, not batted an eye at any of it, any of _him_ or their shared past in DC.

" _Jesus_ , you pack a punch, Barnes."

He brushed it off, too distracted to revel at the familiar sound of her voice—strangely comforting—and a sign of the times that she had used an American term of exasperation and not sworn in Russian. "Yeah, well, you know better than to sneak up on me."

For a moment, she studied his face. Then she smirked and shrugged demurely. "Eh, I managed it on a Norse God once, thought I'd see if it worked on you."

He cocked his head. "Is there a compliment hidden in there somewhere?"

She took a step toward him, darting a glance around as she crowded his space. "It'll be our little secret. How you holding up?" She studied his brow. "Headache to end all headaches, I assume?"

Turning away, suddenly so fatigued he felt like he couldn't stand a moment more, he sighed. "I don't wanna talk about it."

She stepped after him, dropping down onto her knees to avoid being seen from the house. "You okay?"

He didn't answer.

She plowed ahead, undaunted. After all, when something bothered her bone deep, she didn't like talking about her feelings either—not that James even needed to vocalize for her to know what they were. "She's holding up."

His broad shoulders tensed.

Again, she plowed on. "It's Aldrich Killian and his flunkies from AIM."

His flinch made it clear his photographic memory had all the files he'd reviewed upon his arrival from the cold neatly sorted.

"Not sure what the endgame is just yet. Still working on squirming my way in." She sighed, pulling her hand through her long hair. Steve liked it, sure, but sometimes it just got in the way. "Think he's looking to make more of you, only…more efficient." She shrugged. Not that she needed to tell him any of this. Bucky was too sharp to not have realized the details of what was going on, even without a clear line of sight. "Just…give me a little more time and I can get you a way in. Okay?"

More silence.

Worry pooled low in her belly, and she tried to push it down, out of notice. When he got quiet, it was always a good idea to just leave him be. He wasn't a danger, no, but all things considered, he was still working on coping mechanisms and she didn't want to intrude on him. He'd been…intruded on enough over the past few...decades.

"She's strong, Buck. You taught her well. She'll be alright. She's got a lot of fight in her."

He looked away, his blue eyes reflecting the shadowy waves, his jaw clenched.

"Just trust me. Stay here. I'll find you a way in, and then I'll help you mow them all down. Give me a little time. I'll throw out a signal."

She didn't expect a response and so she wasn't surprised when she didn't get one. He was clearly lost again in his own head, as unpleasant as that sounded to Natasha.

Nodding to his peripheral vision, she began back up the slope.

"What sort of signal?" he asked then, his voice low and rough, held on by a bit of string.

She turned to give him a smirk. "I'll figure something out. You'll know it when you see it, Barnes."

And she was gone.

((()))

"Stevie, you've got to eat. Now, come on to the table."

He looked up from the window seat in his room, where he'd been shivering in his blanket for the past hour.

His mother stood in the doorway, looking as pretty and frail as ever, delicate and fragile, her blond hair piled into a neat bun at the back of her head, loose strands framing her face. She had her hands on her hips, studying him from the doorway, a softly stern look on her small features. "Come on now. Don't be silly. Those boys are blockheads, just like Jimmy said. There's no call to sulk like a pup."

He dragged himself off the seat and tossed the scratchy wool square reluctantly down after him. "I wasn't sulking."

"Yeah, you were!" a voice called from the front room downstairs, and a moment later, there came the sound of the door shutting.

As he followed her out onto the loft landing and down the stairs of their apartment, a cold, wintry breeze hit them, blowing in from Bucky's arrival. "Shut up, jerk," Steve mumbled.

Bucky laughed, hooking his blue scarf on a coat peg and pulling his hands through his freshly shorn hair, blown in the icy wind, even on the short walk from his place. "You were sulking, punk, don't deny it. Those jackasses think it's funny, but you ain't the only fella in that art class. Just let 'em heckle ya, it ain't your problem." He glanced at the woman's wryly disapproving face. "Sorry, Mrs. R. Slipped out."

Sarah Rogers chuckled and shook her head. "Jimmy, what am I gonna do with you?"

Bucky brightened considerably and smiled sweetly—too sweetly. "Piece a cobbler?"

Steve's mother wagged a finger good-naturedly. "After supper."

Bucky shrugged. "Why you think I came over?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm sure it had nothin' to do with your no good daddy, drinking himself to death. Now come, sit. You're both too skinny. Don't know where all that food I make goes with you two—s'like you're both made a rubber."

Steve chuckled and pulled out a chair and sat down, skipping his father's empty setting for the next space over. "It's all the boxing he does, ma. Burns it all off every week."

Sarah filled two bowls with thick, hot chili, and set them in front of the nearly grown men. She stroked her fingers through Bucky's chestnut hair, sighing in gentle frustration as she straightened his collar. "I don't like you going over there, Jimmy. You're gonna get yourself hurt one day and the place ain't filled with forgiving types." She filled her own bowl and sat across from him, sliding the two full glasses of milk she'd poured earlier in front of them as well.

Bucky shrugged. "Gotta earn my way out somehow."

She shook her head. "Well, you got two jobs, dontcha?"

Another shrug. "Don't pay well enough, Mrs. R."

Sarah sighed, reaching across the table to still his hand there. "I know you wanna get out from under his thumb, sweetie," she murmured, her expression hardening into one of worry. "But you gotta be careful how you do it. You hear me?"

Bucky, sobered, nodded. "I know."

Steve spoke up, swallowing a mouthful of chili. "He's good, ma. He'll win the welterweight yet."

Sarah sighed, going back to her food. "You're gonna beat up the whole world, huh, Jimmy? Who's next—that Hitler fella? He's no good news, just you wait and see. Nobody should have that kind of power."

Bucky smiled. "Yeah, I'll go beat him up for you, eh, Mrs. R?"

She shook her head yet again, tsk-ing him. "When are you gonna start calling me Sarah like a good boy?"

He winked. "When you stop bein' Mrs. R, Mrs. R."

She sighed, smiling. "You are a bad boy, Jimmy Barnes, and you got a mouth on you, too."

He only got up, grinning, and went to the sink, turning on the faucet and filling a glass—

Just in time for the woman to start coughing, slowly and softly at first, then harder, rasping and wet.

Steve set a steadying hand on her shoulder, though he was no stronger than she was in the long run, and gave his friend a questioning look. "How'd you know?"

Bucky shrugged, hovering over the woman's chair, frowning. "Her voice always sounds funny before she starts. Haven't you noticed?"

Steve shook his head.

Finally, she finished, taking the offered glass and gulping from it desperately before clearing her throat. "Oh, my Lord. Thank you, boys. I don't know what it's been lately, the coughing is just awful."

Bucky took up his seat again. "You should go see the doc again, Mrs. R. I need help keeping this one in line." He nodded at Steve.

Steve scowled. "Jerk."

"Punk," he answered.

"Boys…" Sarah cut in, waving her hand. "I'm fine. It's just a winter cough."

Steve sighed. "We'd feel better if you went anyway."

"Yeah, you can't keep running if you're sick, Mrs. R."

She rolled her eyes, flapping her hand at them both. "Alright, alright. My little worriers." She pointed at Bucky. "You started it, young man. This is your fault. He never used to be so pushy before the two of you started running together, making trouble."

"Trouble?" Bucky repeated, smiling mischievously. "Me?"

"Yes!"

"I didn't have long to be an angel, then, by your memory, ma—we met over ten years ago!" Steve added.

Sarah sighed. "Just the same."

They ate together in silence for a while, bowls emptying, milk disappearing. Sarah brought out the cobbler and set it on the table. She'd saved up berries all week to have enough to make it, borrowed sugar from the Jones' next door in exchange for getting a particularly stubborn stain out of Ellen's dress.

"Another masterpiece, Mrs. R," Bucky said, scooping a spoonful out for her to spare her sore hands.

"Thank you, Jimmy," she sighed, slumping tiredly down in her seat again. "How's Becca, by the way?"

Bucky only half succeeded in hiding his flinch. "They kept me too late at the garage for me to get her over here before pop got home. They were already sitting down for dinner when I looked in the window."

She clucked her tongue. "And they couldn't wait for you for supper? Unheard of."

Bucky shrugged. "Nothing new, Mrs. R. Anyway, I hate sitting at the table with him. He's half-drunk before he gets up again."

"So she's doing well, then?"

He shrugged again, not meeting her eyes. "She's got a bruise on her shoulder. Said she walked into her dresser."

Sarah smiled. "She's being clumsy again, then, eh?"

"Ma," Steve admonished.

But Bucky didn't laugh. "Her dresser's a half a foot shorter than she is."

Silence.

"She's got spirit, Jimmy. She'll be alright."

He finally looked up with a breath. "If this gets bad, with Germany, and I gotta go, I need you to look out for her for me, alright, Mrs. R?"

She opened her mouth for a moment, as though to argue against the idea somehow, but then shut it, and nodded, eyes downturned. "You just make sure, if that happens, that you come back, you hear me, baby?"

He nodded.

Steve spoke up. "And what about me, huh? I can go, too. I'm not that weak."

Sarah just sighed and patted his hand. "I know, sweetie. But you can't always get what you want—right?"

"I said, I need to know what kind you want—is that alright, Sir? Sir?"

Steve jumped, blinking himself back to the present to find a stewardess standing in front of him in first class, giving him a rather quizzical look. Her eyes were large and bright in a heart-shaped face, framed by elaborately pinned dark hair. She reminded him of Darcy all over again. "Right. Sorry. Been a long day. Uh…" He glanced at the choices on the flyer in front of him and handed the sheet back to her. "Just, uh, the fruit plate."

She nodded, scribbling it down. "And to drink?"

Couldn't get drunk; that didn't mean that going through the motions didn't sometimes help. "Scotch." Then he winced at the reminder of Bucky's father's drink of choice.

She nodded, continuing to scribble. "Straight up?"

A grim foreboding was slowly filling him, and his voice was low. "On the rocks."

"Thank you, Sir." And she was gone, strutting off in her skin-tight blue uniform skirt, and he was relieved at her businesslike attitude, not flirtatious in the slightest.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. What he wouldn't have given to be able to enlist someone to help him, for a way to sneak a Quinjet off the Tower roof and have no one notice. But a flight directly out had seemed like a good idea two hours ago, as he'd careened out of Avengers Tower on his bike, flinging himself into traffic and eliciting at least three angry honks in his haste.

Somehow, it still surprised him that he found Darcy at the forefront of his mind, rather than Bucky.

He supposed he'd done enough worrying over his friend over the past year or so. Besides, he'd more than learned that Bucky could take care of himself.

But Darcy.

His little Darcy.

They'd become such a little pair by the time Natasha had happened—by the time _Bucky_ had happened—that he could hardly remember a time when she _wasn't_ one of his best friends, when she wasn't a large part of his life.

Part of him felt awful that he'd not spotted the warning signs with her sooner, last winter, while Bucky had been gone.

Tony had noticed her flagging, all the signs that she was holding up to an even lesser extent than she let on.

 _Tony_ had given her assistance.

 _Tony_ had given her an ear.

 _Tony_ had been there, caught her, kept her calm.

 _Tony_ had realized the signs of her panic attack just a moment before he had.

He felt like he'd dropped the ball, let her down.

He knew she'd smack him for feeling guilty, but the feeling was there anyway.

She'd been almost single-handedly responsible for pulling him back into the world, getting him up to speed on social and cultural norms, pop culture, language. They'd taken an entire week to work out all the different technologies out there—his laptop, the internet, his Starkphone, his tablet, _everything_.

She'd seen his own flagging ability to cope and forced him to get up, shoved herself stubbornly in his face and demand they get lunch to 'chat'.

And then she'd proceeded to use that foot in the door to lambast him back into the present.

At first he'd hated it, been exceedingly offended at her implications and presumptions, been angry and shy, uncomfortable and uncertain.

But she'd patched him up fairly quickly.

Of course, now that he thought about it, was it really such a surprise that she'd managed twice the amount for Bucky?

Just, with the addition of romantic interest.

He stared out his window, mulling it all over.

And now she needed him. She'd been suffering too much for words for the past few months. That much had been clear each and every time he and Natasha had made plans with them, her eyes red and tired, sunken, her movements slow and deliberate, not at all the bouncy girl he'd met. She'd very subtly leaned on Bucky the few times they'd actually gone out, and Bucky had kept his watchful gaze on her, drawn in worry, his arm around her waist. It had been even more obvious the handful of times Bucky had called to cancel, his voice deep and low and tired. They'd closed ranks, the two of them, shut themselves in, a little pair, secure in each other against the dark outside world.

Steve wondered just what was going on. But he was never one to pry—at least not too much. And besides, no one could do much about it at present, so why beat a dead horse asking, right?

Who knew what position Bucky was in, too. After all, if he'd been in a good one, they'd have heard something by now.

Of course, he hadn't really heard anything from Natasha, so it was all open to speculation at the moment, and that seriously made him itchy. He was going in blind.

Totally. Fucking. Blind.

He just hoped he could be as useful to Darcy as she'd been to him.

He pulled out his phone and fidgeted with the settings, pulling up the WiFi hotspot controls and searching the map he'd hurriedly looked over in the airport lounge.

It came up and he dragged his fingertips over the screen, zooming in on his intended destination and chewing on his lip, not even looking up when the stewardess brought him his drink.

He should've grabbed a thicker coat, whether or not he was less affected by the cold nowadays.

After all, though it was summer in New York, it was bound to be at least cool in Barrow, Alaska.

((()))

The next time Darcy woke, she was completely clear-headed.

This discovery didn't make her feel any better about her situation, of course; it made her feel worse.

She immediately set about mentally cataloguing all that had happened in the past 48 hours. She wasn't entirely sure how long it had been, but she was going with her gut. She'd learned, in her time with _Bucky, the Super Soldier_ , that guts were usually right, and since she resembled him somehow now—at least in the very slightest—she decided to see where that took her.

He'd woken her up. Told her he was going for a swim.

She'd called Tony and they'd talked.

She'd taken her coffee out onto the deck and drooled over the guy she was still getting used to calling her husband.

And car doors—the noise of car doors had roused her from her thoughts, pulling her back into the house in time to see _Aldrich Killian_ approaching.

He'd used whatever that shit was in his blood—the shit he was using to try to create uber-healthy, creepy super soldiers of his own that Tony had thwarted. Project Centipede and Extremis. That was it. He'd melted the door handle and pulled it straight off one hinge, come into the house, grabbed her, then dosed her with something nasty in a huge—

Well. That explained the awful pain in her neck. That needle had been the size of a pen. What the _fuck_ had that bitch doctor stuck her with?

 _Erwin_.

Right. That was her name. She remembered one of the black clad henchman talking about something called a…TMS blast? And an—

 _EMP_.

Her blood ran cold with shock and realization crashed down on her.

They were separated.

 _Hard_.

They'd gotten to them while Bucky was out, on the beach. While Darcy hadn't the foggiest what a TMS blast was, she damn well knew what an EMP was. She did plenty of reading, she'd seen _The Matrix_.

His arm was _useless_. Or, at least, without internal power. He _hated_ that arm. If its technology went offline, he was perfectly capable of using it, but he'd said it was akin to driving a car without steering assist.

And _Natasha_ —Natasha was here. In what context, Darcy wasn't sure, but it was surely covert or she'd never have slapped her across the face and called her a 'bitch'. Likely, she'd gone with some scorned lover storyline.

She snorted—out loud. The day she slept with Steve was the day Hell froze over. She loved him, and he was precisely like the sweet older brother she'd never had, and while he was seriously, _ridiculously_ yummy and gorgeous—he was… _Steve_.

Lovable goofball. Clueless, yet tactical genius _Captain America_.

Sweet and loyal, smart and headstrong.

They'd never danced near anything even _remotely_ like sex.

Whereas with Bucky, she was fairly certain they'd both noticed the strange, underlying sexual tension the moment they'd met. All they'd done, really, was spend an inordinate amount of time dancing around it. Her memory drifted again…

"You know that you sort of walk around like a Thirties pinup, right?"

She spun, finding herself alone in the lab, Jane wandered off, muttering math equations under her breath, and that Bucky had taken her place, leaning one jeaned, sexy hip against the doorway. On top of that, his hair was all soft and tossed across his forehead, his eyes contained a certain humor that she was pretty sure had been missing a few days before, and he wore a rather roguish smile on that full mouth. "What?"

He gestured with his chin. "Really. If I hadn't already asked you out, you'd have suitors lined up out the door."

She flushed—something she _never_ did—and turned to face him, sticking out a hip and tapping her high-heeled foot. "Don't you think you're Casanova."

He shrugged one broad shoulder. "Nah. Just something I noticed."

She raised a brow. "'Already asked me out', huh? Do three lunch dates really count?"

He winked. _Winked_. "I dunno. You tell me, dollface. You're the one with all the modern rules. I'm a little behind. You'll have to take pity on me and fill me in."

She laughed, hand on her hip. "Take pity on you, huh? You wanna be a pity date?"

He slouched his way into the room, tugging a hand through his hair. "Well. I didn't say _that_."

She approached the lab table and leaned on it, extremely conscious of the fact she was wearing a low-cut top and that her pencil skirt and red heel combo probably did give the effect that her curves were something out of his time, laid out on the nose of a fighter plane. "So what are you saying, _Winter Soldier_? Got something else in mind?"

He flitted a glance around, checking Jane wasn't in sight, the smile evaporating and replaced with a more serious expression, soft and warm. "Dinner?"

She smiled coquettishly, not sure where the bravado in her was coming from, her heart hammering in her chest. Oh, God, he was really going for it this time, she hadn't read his signals wrong. She'd done that from time to time. "Where at? There's a nice Italian place down the street—"

He shook his head. "Hm-mm. My place."

A brow rose and she jerked her head back, eyeing him. " _Your_ place?" That was... _intimate_.

He nodded. "My place."

She smirked. "The Winter Soldier can cook?"

He shrugged. "I remember a few things."

"Hm." She made a show of studying him for a moment. "Well, then, I think you've got a deal, Soldier Boy."

But he didn't smile. He just pulled his hands from their pockets and approached, slowly, as though half expecting her to bail.

She didn't.

"Seven?" he asked, his voice softening.

She nodded. "I haven't got anything else planned."

And he stopped just a step from her, expression searching, but intent. "Now you do."

"Now I do."

He'd kissed her already—a soft, sweet thing the second time they'd met for lunch—caught her by surprise as they were coming back into the Tower, and she'd nearly dropped her soda at the smooth move, his hand at the small of her back, tugging her in closer. And again—the same kiss—last week, when they'd gone out on her hour break for Chinese, her knees going shamefully weak.

But neither of them had been like this.

In a move she was too nervous to really trace, he was in her space, his pretty eyes close enough for her to pick out the little threads of sea glass in them, bright blues and turquoises.

And then his mouth was on hers—really, truly—and it seriously was all she could do to fold her hands around his collar and tug, pulling his mouth more firmly against hers, dragging him closer down to her level.

His mouth was so lush and soft, it took her a second to even realize what was happening, took her a moment to remember how to enjoy this part.

But that was _all_ it took her, her mind swept totally clean of anything but the feel of his mouth, his five o'clock shadow scratching lightly at the soft skin of her face. She'd never experienced that before either. Where she'd thought it would hurt and annoy, she found the opposite was true—at least for him—and the sensation sent a bolt of heat straight down, deep, strumming in her belly and tightening her core in a flash move that had her blushing down to her toes.

She might've made a soft noise then, a mewl of pleasure, because he closed the gap, stepping closer and deepening the embrace, reading her signal with perfect exaction.

He had flawless technique though, no matter his spotty memory. It was too early to get too… _naughty_ , and there was no tongue, no wandering hands. Just the wonderful, euphoric sensation that she'd never been kissed like this before, sweetly, and softly, but with an underlying passion that made her weak at the knees.

A kiss that telegraphed a level of seriousness that hadn't been spoken, a kiss with intent and purpose.

"Darce?" a voice called.

Jane.

Gasping, they pulled rapidly apart, staring at each other, wide-eyed.

Then he darted right, throwing himself behind the huge storage shelf in the corner, piled high with Jane's thingamabobs, cords and metal parts obscuring him fairly fully.

"Darcy?"

She managed to snatch up the binder she'd been working out of just as Jane finally entered the room, but in her haste, she missed the back of it and piles of papers came loose, and as the astrophysicist rounded the corner, miscellaneous pieces were drifting lazily to the floor and landing with little hisses of protest in the silence.

She swallowed. "Hi. What's up?"

Jane blinked at her, taking in the scene. "Uh. I had a…question."

Darcy was fairly certain she was blushing hard, and she wondered if her hair was mussed. She was sure her mouth was red and she hoped with everything she had that her face wasn't showing the signs of his stubble—or that her pulse, echoing in her core with a bright aching need wasn't clearly visible on her face.

God, most of the _sex_ she'd had hadn't been as intimate as _that kiss_.

"Question. Right. What can I do ya for?" She winced internally at the loud brightness in her voice. _Do ya for? Really?_

Jane blinked again. "…Everything okay in here?"

Banking on Jane's distractibility, she stuck a hand to her hip, setting the binder back down and intently ignoring the papers littering the lab tiles. "Yep. Totally. _Totally_ okay. Just me, you know, being _me_. _Clumsy Darcy_. Right?" She laughed shakily. "What's up, Jane-y?"

The scientist bent down and flipped a sheet over. "I was looking for my calculations from last week—and my Tone Synthesizer, so I could measure those…" she drifted off. "Oh. They're right here. What were you doing with them?"

She swallowed— _hard_ —and darted a glance over to the shelf, where Bucky was crouched, very still, his eyes dark on her, but a curl of humor turning up one side of his full mouth. "Uh. I thought you wanted them put into the system?"

Jane shook her head. "No. Not these. The ones from yesterday."

She nodded, her pulse hammering in her throat. "Oh. Right. Okay. Must've gotten them confused."

She hadn't.

Jane went over to the shelf— _the shelf_ —and started rummaging around. "You're acting weird. Are you okay? I mean, you went out to lunch again, which you, like, never really did before last week. Was…Bucky there?"

Darcy plainly heard the suppressed disapproval in her friend's voice. "Uh. Yeah. We checked out those food trucks and then sat in Central Park. Why?" She left out that it was probably the most romantic meal she'd ever had, burgers and fries by the duck pond, laughing at the geese as they harassed the general public for food. An entire hour away from numbers and scientific theories, away from judging eyes. An entire hour to just be and laugh. She didn't think she'd laughed that much since before Thor had stormed into their lives— _literally_.

Jane sighed, pulling out a machine and studying it a moment. "Because the only thing less safe in New York than lunch with the Winter Soldier is lunch with the Winter Soldier _in Central Park_ …" She snorted.

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Don't start that again, Jane. Think of it this way: he can protect me from those notorious purse snatchers."

Jane shook her head, but said no more on the subject. "Where did I put it? I thought I put it up here…?"

Darcy sighed, trying not to look in Bucky's direction.

And Jane bent and pulled off another, smaller machine, _revealing the assassin's face._

Bucky flinched, turning his head so just the back of his jaw and ear were visible, obscured by his soft, dark hair. But Jane was studying the machine instead and hadn't noticed him.

"Ah. Here it is." She turned back, reaching up to tug the cord off the shelf—

Darcy held her breath— "Jane—"

"Jane?" another voice called, just then. "Jane, my love?"

 _Thor_. Thank the _Gods_ —or God, in this case.

Jane turned.

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief, and Bucky slumped back against the shelf, visibly so.

"In here, Thor."

The big Norse God filled the doorway in his jeans and t-shirt, his hair messily secured in a knot behind his head, and he looked like a model out of an H&M ad. "Are you quite ready for our early dinner, Jane?" He waved at Darcy cheerfully.

Darcy waved back, struggling to clutch her binder closer.

Jane slung her machine into one arm and gathered her notes in the other hand. "Sure. Let me just toss this stuff in my apartment and we can get going. You wanted to show me that Ramen place in Times Square, right?"

Thor nodded. "Yes. I thought we might take in a film after."

"Ooh, you thought of _everything_!" Jane smiled, ducking out in front of him, her lab assistant totally forgotten.

But Thor paused in the doorway as Jane continued on down the hall. He smiled again, hand up in another brief wave. "Darcy." His gaze flicked right, his mouth curling mischievously, and she was sure she didn't imagine the sly gleam in his eyes. "James."

And he was gone, jogging to catch up to his astrophysicist, who was already in the elevator, nose buried in her notes.

Dinner that night at his place had been nothing but laughs at the whole misadventure, and after an episode of _Sherlock_ and a half hour of making out on his couch, he saw her into a cab and waved goodnight.

The image of him, standing under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, face just a little wistful, shoulders hunched a little to make him less conspicuous as people milled around at all hours of a New York night filled her mind now, as she sat there, aching, in her chair, scowling down at her robe, rucked up her thigh. They hadn't even let her get _dressed_ , hadn't given her the opportunity to be free long enough to slip on anything else. She considered herself extremely lucky that the cinch had held over the last two days, and hadn't bared anything she'd rather not have bared—to anyone other than Bucky, of course.

So much had happened that it all seemed so long ago, now. It was just last summer.

Her heart tugged painfully hard in her chest and she winced, biting her lip to combat it. "Goddamn," she murmured, letting her head slump tiredly and squeezing her eyes shut to stop the sudden tears cramping in the back of her throat.

She'd just _wanted_ him.

She'd _wanted_ him, and wanted him to be _happy_ , and at _peace_ , and to find a way to accept himself and what he'd been forced to do.

She'd wanted to be _that person_ that helped him get there, helped him remember how to breathe and how to smile and laugh and let go.

She'd wanted him to remind her why it mattered that she still did those things, too. Her own sense of self had gotten lost, too, somewhere along the way, lost in all the _science_! and the mathematical equations, and the Norse God _gobbledegook_ and Greenwich temporal anomalies and world ending aliens, and she'd just wanted someone to make her feel alive.

 _Alive_ , but not on the brink of space God death—that kind of alive.

She loved Jane. She _did_.

But she wanted to be first to someone.

She'd never been first before.

She'd been last to both her parents.

Second— _at best_ —to Jane.

Something not quite definable to her previous boyfriends.

Somewhere in the middle with Ian.

But she'd been _first with him_. She _was_ first with him. He'd made that _abundantly_ clear in the time since they'd met, _abundantly_ clear that he treasured her.

It broke her heart in a way she hadn't really been prepared for.

And it had been so nice, that short space of time between New Year's and Valentine's Day. They'd taken a day and corralled Steve and moved all her things across town and that short little bank of time had been so wonderful and she'd not even thought for a _second_ it could be so viciously interrupted.

She'd been foolish to think for _even a second_ that they could have anything resembling domestic bliss.

That was all she'd wanted, in a surprise move. A little peace and quiet, a little domestic bliss, even if it was interspersed with super heroes and covert ops and HYDRA garbage.

Just them. In his apartment. With the TV at night and sleeping in the same bed with someone, warm and close.

 _Someone who put her first._

"Too _fucking_ simple," she muttered under her breath, clenching her hands into fists within their secures.

She wondered where he was, hoping against hope that it was out there, on the beach somewhere, hidden and going through tactical maneuvers, and not somewhere in the house, tied up like she was—not that it would be easy, tying up the fucking Winter Soldier.

"God, you gotta get me outta this, baby," she sighed. "God, _please_ …"

"I don't think he can hear you, sweetheart," came a casual voice, and Aldrich Killian came waltzing in like it was _'Singing in the Rain'_ , Natasha at his heels, face shuttered like it usually was when she was in her own head. "At least, in my experience he can't."

Darcy sighed, relinquishing control. "What the _fuck_ do you want with me, you _freak_? Seriously. Let's just dispense with the villainous soliloquy and get to the boss fight, okay? I mean, _really_. This is getting old, dude. I was having a really great time before you came _melting_ your way in here. So what gives?"

Natasha's lip curled and only someone who knew her well saw it for what it was—a smirk of humor, rather than a sneer of indifference.

Killian sighed. "Aw, I'm just funning ya, kiddo. We can't get to the good stuff yet. That would ruin the anticipation I've built up, don't you think?"

She sighed again, rolling her eyes. "Sure, yeah, right, whatever. What do you want with me? If you're looking to use me to make more freaks like you, you might find you'll have a hard time. I'm _broken_ , remember? I'll even tell you everything I know. Okay? How's that sound?"

He quirked a brow. "Oh?"

She heaved another sigh, grimacing as she focused on the ceiling, and shifted to try and work a kink out of her back. With an internal groan, she had the errant thought that Bucky could work that knot out in a cool, methodical sixty seconds, moving right along. "I don't have the same serum as the other Winter Soldiers. This one's different, it's modified, or it's watered down, or some shit. _It doesn't work_." She shrugged. "Well, it does work— _sort_ of—but it's sporadic and totally unpredictable and let me tell you: it's _so_ not worth the side effects."

"There are other Winter Soldiers?" he asked, his tone cool, his attention apparently peaked.

She snorted. "You lie for _shit_ , Killian. I'm calling your bluff. You already knew that."

Another smirk from Natasha.

"Where are they?"

" _Hell_ , I'm thinking. They're all _dead_ ," she snapped. "I've got the only collectable edition. He's an original," she sneered.

Natasha turned her head away from the villain as a full smile stole her expression away from her careful control.

"And?" he prompted.

"I can heal people. Sporadically. Take their injuries into myself. But we don't understand the mechanism or what its attached to. And it's not adrenaline—you're doctor bitch is a _dumbfuck_. That's a rookie move that mine took care of first step off the block."

Natasha started coughing and turned her head to cover her mouth.

Killian's brow went up.

"Unless I can control my side effects, I'm _useless_ to you—and in case you were wondering, I have no interest in blowing people up. It's really a shame Stark didn't manage to keep you dead. You're such an ugly bastard."

" _Ooh_ ," he crowed softly, whistling. "We've got a l1ive one here. That's it then? You wanna bring out the big guns, fight fire with fire? You're done playing games?"

"You rolled the dice, Killian," she snapped.

"So you're packing it up, then?"

She sat forward as far as her restraints would allow. "You wanna kill me, _kill me and have done with it_. I'm getting _impatient_. That's always been a flaw of mine."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, _really_?"

She sneered again. "But you won't kill me; you _can't_ kill me. You need me, don't you Aldrich? You've got some nasty little plan all folded neatly in your back pocket, and you _need_ me, but you want to _play_ with me first, like a _twelve-year-old boy who just figured out what's in his pants._ "

Natasha started coughing again.

But Killian was only mildly ruffled and cocked his head. "Oh? And that's all stuff I _don't_ know, or is it stuff that you _already_ know, or—I'm sorry, could you run that by me one more time? I'm afraid I lost track…"

She smiled. "Wanna know something else?"

He leaned forward, mocking her with his enthusiasm. "Oh, _do tell_ , Ms. Lewis. _Do tell._ "

"I've seen a few things that you haven't. Bruce Banner's not the only one you wouldn't like when he's angry."

Killian took a step back—and laughed.

 _Laughed_. He opened his mouth, threw his head back, and laughed, gesturing at Natasha and nudging her shoulder as though it was so great that they could share the joke together. "You hear this, Romanoff? Oh, God, she's sweet, huh?"

But Natasha wasn't laughing, or coughing, or even smirking anymore. She was giving Darcy a hard look, her signal that pointed scowl that conveyed everything and nothing at once.

Darcy just smirked, unfazed by his mockery. "You're all the _same_ , all you bad guys. You think in one of two directions. You take the route that he's the _Big Bad Wolf_ and beef up your security, not realizing that he'll come at you _sideways_. Or you go the _opposite_ route, and assume, now that his memory is restored and he's no longer HYDRA's puppet, that his talents are somehow diluted. But you miss the bigger picture."

Killian smiled at her. "And what's the bigger picture, sweetheart?"

She curled her mouth up in a ghoulish grin. "When he's angry, he's not a Howling Commando. He's not Bucky, he's not even just plain James Barnes, from Brooklyn. He's not thinking about HYDRA, and he's not thinking about the War, and he's not thinking of being a nice guy, he's not the _Dark Knight_ , and he's not _Steve Rogers_ , following a rule not to kill. All of that falls away and he's stripped down raw, his control entirely relinquished. He lets it fall away— _lets it go_."

Killian was still smiling, but it had faded just a little. "Let's what go? Stripped down to what?"

"I hope you've battened down the hatches. We don't come as a matched set, Killian, you can't put us in pretty display cases to take out and play with whenever you want. And you _certainly_ won't get nearly that far, even _if_ you abandon the notion that you can bring him in out of the cold. Because you're not dealing with a Howling Commando. And you're not dealing with Bucky Barnes. _You're dealing with all three_. And if you thought _one_ was scary, you're in for a long night. It's not a matter of _if_ , it's a matter of _when_. And when he finds his way in here, there won't be a blood bath." She smiled, showing all her teeth. "There will just be _silence_. Silence and _a trail of bodies_."


	9. Chapter 9: Dare You to Move

**Chapter 9: Dare You to Move**

 **Summary: In which there are more flashbacks and much forward movement.**

 **Notes: I'm back! Hope you guys have had a good week! I thought I'd get this up early since I finally feel like I've got a good flow down and I think I've put enough distance between where I've posted and where I am currently in the narrative. Gotta keep a wide enough gap or I'll catch up to myself.**

 **Anyhoo, here we are. Hope you guys like. We're really getting to the grit of this part now, things are going to start moving forward, narratively, at a more rapid pace. Not totally sure that 'narratively' is a real word, but we're just gonna go with it and pretend it is, okay? Okay.**

 **Couple things: A few of you have mentioned the flashbacks being a little confusing, in that it's not always clear when our characters are in one. I do, in fact, try and make that pretty clear in the paragraphs preceding and following a flashback. That being said, with this one, that was sort of my goal. Remember, I mentioned that? I want things to be a bit fluid-too fluid-so with everything that's going on (Darcy spending most of her time in a weird fugue state, Bucky remembering old, old things) you, as a reader, aren't entirely confident where things are, either, at least until you're out of the memory. Make sense? Don't get me wrong, if anyone needs clarification on a particular bit, shoot me a question and I can answer. But I did try to build that in on purpose.**

 **Also-and this is seriously cool-The Wintershock fandom Tumblr featured me in their Author Spotlight this week! I know! I'm so flattered, I wasn't sure I had that many people reading my drabbles. We did a little interview! Really exciting! So, go check it out here: post/155957466813/author-spotlight-marvellitchick**

 **You may have to copy/paste, the embedding didn't really work. But anyway, that's ridiculously cool, and a shout-out to foreverdrunkatheart for recommending me! You are made of sparkly awesomeness and I'm not really sure how to thank you-I can't email you a hug, but the thought it IS TOTALLY THERE!**

 **So, without further ado (I know, I talk a lot-small wonder I'm a Tom Hiddleston fan, eh?) here we go. As always, I do not own Marvel (sigh) and the chapter title is taken from the Switchfoot song of the same name. Seemed very fitting and it's a great song-go give it a listen (In fact, at risk of sounding like a total retro geek, everything on the A Walk To Remember soundtrack is good)!**

 **Enjoy! Love you all. Let me know how you like. Also, apologies if the formatting here is weird-the site was acting really wonky...**

((()))

" _Idiots_ ," the doctor muttered under her breath. "All of them. _This_ is why my mother told me never to work with men."

Blinking, Natasha looked up from the blood bag she was carefully stowing, making sure to study the label. ' _Lewis, Darcy_ ' it read in the woman's clear printing. ' _Type A+_ '. She frowned. In all the time she'd spent with her in the past six months, she'd never needed to ask to know she hated her family—and their name. It just went to show how awful she'd felt recently that she still hadn't changed it. For all her independence, Natasha knew she wasn't beyond the draw of old, traditional romance.

Killian had tasked her with helping the doctor—Erwin, she'd been right—with organizing her recent findings. While it was a fantastic opportunity to glean further information—Aldrich had proven more secretive than she'd initially thought, which was making her job harder—she had no illusions. He didn't trust her, and she was nearly sure him putting her in the back was a bit of a test of faith. Her next few moves—depending on whether or not she learned anything of particular use—would be _critical_. She'd have to be careful—he was watching her closely, no matter how nonchalant an air he gave off.

She shut the drawer and straightened. "Why is that?"

Erwin jumped, turning away from her paperwork. "I didn't even realize I said that out loud."

Natasha smiled. "Good to know I'm not the only one that does that."

Total. Lie. Steve _constantly_ ribbed her for being more tightly wound than his old school nun.

Erwin sighed, then offered her hand. "Clytemnestra."

Natasha was careful to smile and shake her hand with a firm grip. "Natasha." She said nothing about the apt pairing of AIM villain with the vengeful woman of Greek myth her name evoked. For a moment she had the fanciful notion of who her Agamemnon would be.

"It's just that this is a total mess. I mean, if you're going to bother with Super Soldiers, at least do it right. There were no medical protocols followed, it's like no one bothered to read any archived files previous to jumping—I mean, it's no wonder there's a botch to correct! And a _huge_ one, at that! And it's all on _my_ head! Chauvinistic assholes."

Natasha barely hid her raised eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"

Erwin slumped into a rolling desk chair. She'd been set up in a makeshift office in the back, tucked in beside the bed, with a small desk, some files left out, and a medium sized portable cooler. Natasha knew that the fridge in the kitchen held more temperature sensitive materials, not to mention she was itching to sneak into the garage, where she'd set up the EMP equipment. If she could get back there, she could work on turning her mysterious equipment off so Bucky could make a move.

She hid her grim grin at the potential prospect of nothing but the soft, subtle sound of snapping necks as he slid through the house like a shadow.

"Ugh, _God_ , you've got no idea." She pulled her fingers through her blond ponytail restlessly. "This chick that Aldrich is hung up on is a perfect example. It helps, when creating a Super Soldier, to not dose her with the wrong stuff."

Natasha sat down, curving her body into a language that had worked wonders for her in the past. If she leaned in and tipped her head to the side, it usually encouraged openness, a feeling of empathy and belonging. "The wrong stuff?" She shrugged. "I mean, don't get me wrong—I've nursed a grudge with Darcy for months, but how does a subject get dosed incorrectly?"

Erwin leaned in, voice dropping as she darted a mischievous look around. "Well, really what it boils down to is the fact that he should never have banded up with the idiots he did. They were overeager with their equipment, with _Project Paperclip_ , with _everything_. That warehouse was _wide_ open. I mean, they were sitting _ducks_. And then to just let Schmidt run unsanctioned code like that?" She sighed again. "I should shut up. If they find out I've told you any of this…"

Natasha smirked. "Don't worry. I wouldn't mind sticking it to Killian too, although he's not at the top of my list."

Erwin grinned. "He's such a rat bastard. He's got it in his head he can do better this time. Thinks if he can combine the effects of the Extremis serum and the Super Soldier serum that his associates developed from the original subject's blood that he can finally do some serious damage."

Her heart began to pound, just like that, running away from her like a champion sprinter as an awful thought occurred to her. "Original subject?"

The doctor glanced over her shoulder. "The Winter Soldier."

((()))

"Right this way, Mr. Rogers. If you'd follow me, I can show you to the appropriate holding unit."

Sighing, Steve followed the suited agent through the dim, faux lobby, through the doors, and into the real building, cleverly disguised as an abandoned factory tower.

"At our current count, The Fridge contains exactly two-hundred-and-seventeen individuals brought up under a number of charges, most of which the US Government isn't even aware of." The agent gave a little half smile. "Also, we have the largest store of weaponry, both quantifiable and unquantifiable in terms of current physics definitions. We work with a number of scientists to understand just what we've got in our inventory, but you can understand the need for the extra steps this morning when you arrived—our security is, of course, paramount at this location."

Steve felt like he was being walked through the beginning stages of a sales pitch, but smiled awkwardly anyway. "I understand. No worries. I expected some red tape."

"Not to mention, your presence was off-the-cuff and we weren't told of any appointments…?"

Steve smiled again, shrugging. "Yes. I apologize for my abrupt arrival. There…wasn't time to…make arrangements. I'm working a bit of an unplanned op."

Wait, now he had to _apologize_? All things considered, whether or not he worked for the largest container of enemies of the state in North America, Steve was fairly certain he still had a higher clearance than most agents.

Well. At least it made for a nice change from the flattering, yet exhausting usual round of, _Mr. Rogers, I'm such a fan. Really. I mean, I pretended I was Captain America when I was a kid, you know? Fighting Nazis! I even had a little plastic shield. It's so nice to meet you. You've done great things for this country and we all love you. You're a national treasure. Could you sign my trading card? Or anything, really. My dad will be so angry if I don't get an autograph!_

The agent walked him through what felt like a winding thatch work hallway, and Steve—even with his sharp senses—was hopelessly turned around in just a few short moments.

And they were awkward moments. It was clear that the agent was distracted by what were clearly other, more important things he needed to be doing other than escorting what he seemed to assume was a self-important superhero around his facility. They walked in silence.

He'd been to The Fridge before; last winter, when Bucky had been taken. He and Natasha had flown out on the same airline to keep under the radar, to see if their charge could give them any information concerning his potential whereabouts. It was likely a fool's errand, trying again.

But he had to.

For his Darcy.

Maybe if he tried a different tactic—'Bad Cop', as Darcy had called it, switching it up where he usually was insistent and diplomatic while Natasha went the circuitous route—maybe he'd come up with different results.

How did that saying go, though? The definition of insanity was attempting the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results?

He sighed, pulling a hand through his hair as he widened his strides, moving to keep abreast of the likely passive aggressive efforts of the agent to make him feel inferior.

This was the other angle he usually got from people, although it was rare enough that sometimes it took him a moment to recognize it: defensiveness. Certain personality types responded to his persona in a negative manner, reacting opposite to most people. _Most_ people were more than willing to bow down, as it were. But some…some found the need to express their own capabilities and strength, as though to show him up.

He sighed again.

If he had known, then, that the shtick they gave him would cause so much grief, he might not have agreed to any of it.

He _wasn't_ Captain America. He was only Steve Rogers. He was the same guy—more or less—that he had been _before_ the War. He just had a few scars. Nothing compared to Bucky, of course, who'd come out of the War decidedly worse for wear.

But it wasn't like he walked around Holier than Thou, with an arrogant attitude. He wasn't out to dominate anyone. Truthfully, he'd just as soon quit all this, go home with Natasha, and spend the rest of his life on the couch, curled up with her watching TV. But he was in too deep now, and that wasn't how it worked. He had a responsibility, and really, if he was honest with himself, he liked his job. It kept him busy, and he felt like he was doing good—or at least trying to.

God, who was he kidding? Usually he felt like Sisyphus, pushing an impossible load uphill, only to watching it roll back down again, despite his best efforts. Admittedly, he'd felt that way during the War, yes, but it seemed like everything post-Battle of New York had been an uphill challenge, decidedly more so since the destruction of the Triskelion and he and Bucky's dismantling of SHIELD.

He felt sort of…rudderless.

This—this _awful_ thing with Darcy—gave him a sort of purpose again, a new challenge to tackle, and it being so personal made it all the more imperative that he find a solution—and fast.

They'd all worked so hard. They'd endured _so_ much.

Didn't they deserve a little… _something_? Something that at least vaguely resembled happiness, however temporarily they had to bargain.

"Right this way, Captain Rogers," the agent suddenly spoke up, leading him left down another nondescript hallway. Of course, really, it was only nondescript as most maximum security prisons could be. The cells that lined the halls were large to accommodate for their huge, programmable doors, and only about six fit down each row—at least the ones he'd seen so far on his impromptu tour. There were three on each side, all made of high-tensile steel, their doors clanking into place with a few taps on the nearby touch screens and a swipe of a security card, like the one hanging around this agent's neck, designed like a hotel key.

"It's just Steve," he said, smiling in an attempt to calm the waters. "Really, I haven't been a…captain for a while now. It's all just ceremony, really." He shrugged.

Bucky had been the one to earn his rank.

The agent merely nodded.

Steve rolled his eyes and sighed again. Darcy. If she were here, she'd probably have some choice snark for this guy, let alone a hilarious comment or two, muttered to him under her breath.

He let that thought calm him as the agent slowed them to a stop in front of one of the gargantuan doors, swiping his card under its touch screen with an air of authority. "Here we are, Captain. Do you think you'll need an escort with you inside?"

He nearly snapped that he was perfectly capable of beating both of them to a bloody pulp right there in the hallway, but held his tongue. It wouldn't be _Captain America_ of him to be anything less than cordial. So he smiled—maybe leaking just a bit of condescension into it, maybe not—and shook his head. " _I think I'll manage_. I'll be sure to let you know if I'm… _in any danger_."

The agent nodded. "Of course. I'll be back to collect you and escort you out as soon as you're done. You have twenty minutes." And he was gone, walking off the way they'd come and taking a corner hard.

Sighing again, Steve went through the doors, his eyes finding his target with ease where he sat at a desk in the middle of the room, looking decidedly more alert than the last time they'd been. "Hello, Captain Rogers," he drawled in his thick accent.

Steve smiled grimly at Aleksander Lukin and hit the button on the inside of the door, the metal clanking and protesting as the cell shut behind him, locking them in. "Hi. Got a few questions for you. Shouldn't take long."

((()))

Natasha leaned forward even more, not needing to fake her rapt attention overmuch.

Erwin smirked. "Yeah. Apparently that's what started this whole mess. After the Soldier went rogue, Lukin was _desperate_ to get him back. Rumor has it there were still samples of his blood that Zola had stored in that old facility in Siberia, so he started hiring out some of the greatest minds to tinker with it. Came up with this, apparently all cobbled together from the old man's notes. Obviously, it's highly inferior to the original. I mean—look how _he_ turned out, and then look at _her_."

Natasha nodded, nibbling on her lip before she could stop herself, her heart pulsing with that feeling that told her she was on the very knife-edge of _golden_ information.

Erwin nodded, clearly enjoying the gossiping whole-heartedly. "Well, she's A-positive. He's B-neg. That serum that Lukin derived contains antigens from his blood."

Natasha blinked. No, no, Bucky was A-positive, too, it was in his file. Then she blinked again, horrible realization crashing down on her. Banner must've trusted the intel they'd gotten on him from HYDRA, the information about his progress in the Winter Soldier program. He'd have no reason to retest Bucky's blood for a Type, he'd have assumed something like that would be spot-on. He would've used the samples for _other_ typologies, _other_ tests, establishing a baseline under the assumption, all the while, that James Barnes had Type B-negative blood. Except it wasn't. Somewhere, some of their intel was wrong. _So_ , _so_ wrong. "So, she's essentially…"

Erwin nodded, helping her put the pieces together. "She's exhibiting signs of a transfusion reaction. That's serious. Like, _deadly_ serious. I think the only thing keeping her alive right now is, _also, the serum_. It keeps trying to repair and boost, and act like it's supposed to, to make her into a Super Soldier, but her white blood cells keep attacking Barnes' antigens, which, in turn, pulls her into a headlong spiral. Frankly, even _with_ the serum, I'm surprised she's survived this long. She's a strong one. Someone took impressive care of her."

She flinched inwardly. _Someone, indeed_. Natasha would normally have squashed any outward sign of her reaction, but this time, she thought her wide-eyed look of shock seemed appropriate.

It all made sense.

Why Darcy had only brief episodes, rather than one ongoing trial.

Why she wasn't showing signs of consistent enhanced ability.

Why Bruce was unable to narrow down just what was wrong with her.

It all made blinding, _horrific_ sense.

Quickly as she could, pushing all her racing thoughts out of the way, she swallowed. "So, you think you can fix it?"

Erwin shrugged. "I should be able to boost the serum to fix the problem with my supplemental dose of the corrected version that I've been synthesizing, but unfortunately, I won't know for sure just what will happen until I dose her. And I need to force an episode for it to work. Her blood pressure needs to be raised."

Fear pricking her again, Natasha nodded, her eyes flitting around the room, taking stock of the entrances and exits, the French doors, the ensuite bathroom, and the single doorway that led down to the second set of French doors that opened directly onto the dining room adjoined. "So why don't you?"

Erwin visibly hesitated, glancing back again. "That's the thing. I told Killian that I had narrowed the mechanism down to the release of adrenaline. But now I'm not so sure. If these findings are correct—and they are—it would have to be more related to Serotonin production. I'll have to synthesize a whole new catalyst."

Natasha sighed, sitting back, feeling like she'd been hit by a freight train. How the _fuck_ had they all missed that _at the same time_?!

The doctor stood, then, abruptly, and studied her. "So. Will you help me?"

An offer of alliances. An offer of…friendship?

Natasha resisted the urge to narrow her eyes at the sudden and unnatural offer. But how did the saying go? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? This didn't seem like an offer on the up-and-up.

On the other hand…the more she knew, the better she'd be able to make a decision on any potential moves to get the ball rolling.

She stood. "Tell me what you need."

((()))

"You okay?"

Bucky jumped, looking up from the glowing embers of their fire. "Hm?"

Steve grimaced slightly and stole a glance around at their sleeping comrades, Dum-Dum snorting once, twice, before falling silent again, his head lolling to the side. "I asked if you were okay."

Bucky, his skin itching like he wanted to _crawl out of it_ , nodded, suddenly terse. "Fine. Why?"

Steve blinked in the dim light. "Because you're twitching."

" _I said I'm fine_ , Stevie!" Bucky snapped, his temper welling to a rolling boil in under two seconds flat.

Steve flinched. Bucky had _never_ turned his temper on him before. Only on George during one of his drunken escapades. "Sorry."

Feeling guilty, Bucky swallowed, hard. "S'alright." Truthfully, he felt a little… _funny_.

Steve chewed on his lower lip, nodding. "Stupid question anyway—I just got you out of a Nazi prison camp. Course you're not okay."

There it was again—pulsing impatience. He shut his eyes, trying to center himself, his blood pressure spiking. "I'm fine, Steve. Just shut up." He took a deep breath. " _Please_ , shut up."

But Stevie was like a dog with a bone. "Why don't you sleep? You look like you been run over a few times."

He shook his head, opening his eyes again to look him square in the eye. "I'm _fine_ , Steve. I _can't_ —sleep. I…can't." Did enough of that… _in there_. And he'd rather not revisit those… _things_ yet, the…things in his dreams, the things in the darkness.

Steve nodded, looking around again, over his shoulder. "Right. Sorry." He sighed. "You s'pose they're out there?"

He swallowed again, staring into the dying embers of their fire. The guys had said they were freezing, but they didn't dare make a larger fire, not when there were HYDRA operatives likely on their trail. It was the War, after all, and they were still in enemy territory. "Course they are. They'll want all their new friends back." He shuddered, then pulled his jacket more tightly around himself to cover the fact that he did so out of fear, not cold. In fact, he was barely chilly.

He couldn't remember much of what they'd done to him—what Zola had done to him—and that frightened him more than anything else, not to mention the fact he'd been mysteriously singled out.

"You're _seriously_ pale. Have you eaten?" Steve started rummaging around in his pack. "I've got some rations here somewhere—"

"No. _God_ , Steve. _No_." Bucky flinched, swallowing again reflexively. His stomach was churning.

A sudden crack echoed through the hollow night.

They both sat bolt upright, eyes locking on each other.

"You heard that, right?" Steve muttered.

Scowling, Bucky nodded.

In one fluid motion—a move that Bucky would never have expected of his previously asthmatic friend a few months ago—Steve stood, turning around, his shoulders tense. "I think it might've come from over here. I'll go scout it out."

And he was gone before Bucky could snarl at him.

The _oaf_. Even with his new, fancy serum, his hearing was _still_ diminished. He knew, because the sound had come _from behind him_.

He blinked. How could he _possibly_ know that? But he did; he felt it in bones.

He didn't have time to puzzle it out, though, because his sharp senses already had him up, moving, turning, just in time to throw his elbow back into the first attacker, sending him sprawling with a grunt into the snow on the ground.

He didn't move.

Bucky stood there, staring, wide-eyed, at the unconscious soldier—at least _twice_ his size—downed by a last minute, ditch-effort punch to the gut.

A growl had him looking up around him, then.

Five. There were five others. And all of them were decked out in the very best of the best gear, the only things visible in the cold, their thin, angry lips, a mustache here, a red ear there.

No vulnerabilities in sight—

And Dot—his favorite sniper rifle—lay in the snow on the other side of the fire, where Steve had been sitting.

He glanced at it, then back up at the men.

"der Vorsprung?" one of them asked, and Bucky had picked up enough German to recognize the smart ass asking if he'd like a head start.

They didn't give him much of one, though. As soon as the words had left his mouth, they were on him, five-to-one and Steve was nowhere to be found, the guys perfectly capable—they'd made it abundantly clear on more than one occasion—of sleeping through a total assault with a battering ram.

One of them jumped clean on his back, and without thinking, he reached over his shoulder and his only thought was to get himself some breathing room to take on the other four.

By the time he'd taken that breath, the Nazi had sailed clean across the clearing, where he smacked into a tree trunk, his spine cracking, and he fell to the ground—where he didn't move.

The third soldier came at him with a smirking snarl, but the sound cut off when Bucky head-butted him, sending him sprawling onto the crunching ice.

He had never before head-butted anyone, let alone learned how to do it without making himself scream in pain.

The other two circled him, smiling and laughing.

So he threw himself over backward, snatched up Dot in his right hand, landed neatly, took a knee and punched off two shots.

It was different, actually being close enough to feel the hot spray of blood, rather than watching it all through his scope, but the sensation didn't register so much through his shock.

He stood, barely breathless, and turned to find Steve standing on the edge of the clearing, his own gun drawn, but hanging loose in his limp hand. He blinked, cocking his head and shifting his feet, his mouth opening and closing, once, twice, three times.

Head clear and senses sharper than they'd ever felt in his entire life, Bucky crossed the clearing, sat down in his original spot, and set Dot on the ground at his feet.

Steve followed suit, slowly, and in a jerking manner, as though his brain was stuck unable to compute the scene before him. "I…was going to say that we ought to wake the guys and head on out before they found us. I can see that that won't be a problem."

Bucky cleared his throat and added a small log to the fire. "Nope."

Sighing, Bucky pulled himself from the old memory, skipping their further flight from the woods of Europe and their triumphant return to base, Peggy's expression as she stared at Steve, the cute nurse he'd slept with that night in the medical ward tent.

Mary. Her name had been Mary, and she'd had blonde hair and bright green eyes.

His CO had found them all shacked up the next morning and sworn a blue streak at him and chased him back to his tent in his skivvies.

He'd laughed the entire way and Dum-Dum had been waiting in the doorway with his flask open in a toast.

Looking back now, it seemed so obvious: he'd been changed already, irrevocably, altered and molded, made into something that resembled human, but couldn't quite pass for all the flaws.

His senses had never been so sharp before, his keen sniper's eyes only made keener, his reflexes better than ever.

They'd made him into a _machine_.

And he'd had _no idea_.

If he had…

All the same, he knew, deep down, that he wouldn't have changed anything. Any alteration to his path and he may have missed out on Darcy.

And he wouldn't trade that for anything.

Not for _anything_.

So he stepped out from the shadow of the overhang on shore and crept up behind the guard in black.

He'd wandered just a bit too far, wandered just barely outside of the protective barrier that had been set up to repel him; Bucky knew because he'd spent the past two days very carefully testing where the line was, the edge of the signal that knocked him silly. He'd darted in and out, pushing himself too far so that he could learn just how much of the signal he could take—very little—and trying to block out the sound of Darcy's screams.

That footage she'd mentioned, she'd mentioned it so many times now, the footage of him having his mind wiped down in that bank vault, before the fall of the Triskelion, his _screams_ …The idea that he knew what it felt like, now, to hear it from the other side made his skin crawl.

But he pushed that back, now, pushed it back and off as he very casually crept up behind the man in black, said a prayer asking for forgiveness from a God he wasn't real sure he believed in anymore, and reached up and snapped his neck.

He wasn't even out of breath as he stood there, watching dispassionately, as the man crumpled at his feet, dead in the sand.

((()))

It was dark when Steve finally stepped outside again, and he took a deep breath, the memory of that vault where they'd met Zola's digital self still too fresh in his mind, the bogie that had crushed the building on top of them.

He took another deep breath, nerves swirling in his stomach as it became clear what he had to do. Huffing out a frustrated—and guilty—sigh, he took his Starkphone out of his back pocket, hit a speed dial key, and braced himself for the bad, bad conversation he was about to have.

 _So_ bad. God, it was going to be _so bad_.

" _Captain Over, talk to me_ ," Tony Stark answered a bit too brightly, as had become his habit since he'd admitted to missing Darcy.

Well. That was about to get a whole lot worse.

"Tony. Hey," he said, haltingly.

A pause. " _You never say 'hey'. What's wrong_?"

He swallowed. "I'm, uh…I'm in Alaska," he said, stupidly.

Another pause. " _Alaska? Just felt like taking a tour of The Fridge, or what_?"

Well, Stark had never been one to beat it around the bush.

"I had a…uh, very enlightening conversation with Aleksander Lukin."

A longer pause this time, and Steve winced, knowing Tony was putting the pieces together with that alarming speed with which he did _everything_. " _What don't I know, Rogers_?" His tone was decidedly cooler.

He opened his mouth to tell him that the only reason he'd kept his trap shut this long was because of Natasha, but then he snapped it shut again, unwilling to implicate his wife, no matter how well she could take care of herself. She was his _wife_ , for God's sake, and he had always had too much loyalty to play a trick like that.

" _Rogers_ ," Tony repeated, sounding about as angry as Tony Stark was able to get, and found it curious that he had a definite 'ruffled daddy feathers' sort of thing going on, even down the phone line.

He swallowed. "I wanted to tell you sooner," was all that came out at first. "He, uh…he made it clear that…we missed a few things…last spring."

In fact, Lukin's half-mad cackling had almost felt like something out of a bad B-movie horror flick that Darcy would've shown him, giggling at the horrendous acting all the way through it, until Steve had to thump her on the back to dislodge the inhaled popcorn, rolling his eyes.

The cracking of computer keys. " _Miss what? Out with it, Rogers_."

It all came out in a rush that he couldn't stop, didn't want to stop. Steven Grant Rogers had loved his mother, dammit, and she'd been a good woman, and she'd raised him to always tell the truth, _especially_ to his friends, and no matter how strangely he and Stark got along most of the time, Steve still considered him a close friend. He'd kept his mouth shut long enough, _too_ long, and it was starting to make him _itch_. "AIM thought they infiltrated his HYDRA cell, but he knew about it the whole time, and he let them get away with a small sample of Zola's tainted serum, so that he could back-door it later and get it back. Of course, we got to him first—but we hacked the system and found out that your people from the private jet never made it, they were eyes and ears for AIM, and—" He came to an abrupt halt, horrified by the heavy, full weight of the words he spoke, all the implications, every possibility striking through him like lightning, some strange sensation choking his throat.

Fear. It was _fear_.

And _guilt_. Oh, God, he felt _awful_. He'd kept the truth from Tony—from _Tony_!—who loved that girl like she was his own—who still struggled with guilt over his past sins, and every bad choice he'd made in the name of The Avengers.

" _And what, Steve_?" Tony urged, sounding calm, too calm, the clacking of the computer keys ceasing. " _Who has a Jaguar parked at my beach house, Steve? They didn't take a car._ "

Fear in Tony's voice, too. Desperately repressed, but it was there.

Steve took another deep breath, swallowing back his nerves. "Aldrich Killian, Tony. Killian's alive. He's got Darcy."

((()))

"I was right. This is _it_." Erwin laughed, a carefree sound, nearly a giggle, turning to smile at Natasha, who had frozen in place behind her. "It's linked to her Serotonin reuptake!"

Natasha swallowed, forcing a smile and nodding. They'd been working most of the day, only stopping for sandwiches around noon. It was near dark now, the sun sinking below the water. "Is that good? Can you synthesize the filler, now?"

Erwin nodded vigorously, grinning from ear to ear. " _Yes_! And thank you, _so_ much, for your help!"

Natasha shrugged, doing her best to mask her racing heart, her rising panic. "All I did was hold a few things still and jot a few notes."

Erwin shook her head. "Oh, but that saved me so much time! I can get started on the new filler right away." She laughed again, hopping once, combating her image of 'brainy beauty' with that of a college sorority sister. "Oh, Killian will be so _happy_! The sooner I can test the filler, the sooner we'll find out if this whole serum will work! His work won't be lost, after all! His vision for a stronger military and his own force will still be valid!"

Natasha swallowed, blinking away the images of blown up soldiers on city streets, Happy lying in his hospital bed while he tried to watch _Downton Abby_ with one eye swollen shut.

 _Not good_.

 _So_ not good.

Tony was going to blow a circuit.

Swallowing, she took a step forward. "Did you still need me?" she offered. "I can keep up with you in here. I don't need nearly as much sleep as the average person."

But Erwin raised a hand, waving her off. "Oh, God, no. You go get some rest. I've got this! In the morning, I'll show Aldrich what we accomplished and then we can _really_ get started!" The small woman continued to work like a little engine that could, and Natasha, lingering in the doorway with a worried, pinched brow, could think of absolutely no valid reason that she could make up in order to stay.

She drifted down the hall and out into the living room, where Darcy had finally sunk into merciful sleep, her soft, long brown waves limp along her back and shoulders, obscuring her face.

Her heart gave a tug, and she bit her lip to keep the anger at bay, the unexpected urge to cry. There it was again. She wanted—no _needed_ —to call Steve, every fiber of her being pulling her back to him, across an entire country.

Too far. He was too far away.

The blast of homesickness nearly threw her off her feet and propelled her into the couch, the feeling so new to her—having moved around her whole life—that it filled her to full and made her so heavy that, for a long, awful moment, is was too difficult to move, too difficult to even ponder the _idea_ of moving, the decision of where to go paralyzing her with fear.

She reached out a hand and steadied herself on the back of the couch, studying Darcy, imagining Bucky's expression when he finally saw her, his cold, murderous rage, the swath he'd cut through the house.

The mournfulness that would hit him later, when it was over, and all that was left was a wife that had been broken beyond recognition.

While her best friend stood there and watched and did _nothing_.

No.

She stood, straight, taking a deep breath of the sea air off the ocean. She wasn't doing nothing. She was doing what she did best—playing the long game. She was laying the groundwork for the real hurt.

The Winter Soldier.

Smiling grimly, she gathered herself and crept through the room, noting the distinct missing-ness of Aldrich, and made it to the door of the attached garage.

With a certain amount of trepidation and not a small thought for her own sense of self-preservation, she stepped determinedly into the garage, glancing once over her shoulder as discretely as she could manage.

Unsurprisingly, it was empty of cars. Tony kept all of his expensive toys—including the pretty, white Ferrari F12 Berlinetta that Darcy was a huge fan of—either in the basement of the Tower or in his collection garage out at the Malibu house. She'd heard him offer them the use of a rental from some supercar place he was on the in with, but they'd refused, so it was no surprise either that the only two cars on the property were the two their group had so politely arrived in.

She wasn't sure just what the deal was with the two little old ladies that kept up the place when no one was here. She didn't want to think too closely on that right now, hoping they'd been paid to keep away and emptily threatened to keep quiet, but she forced it to the back of her mind as a costly distraction when she so desperately needed to focus. She could worry about them later.

Hung on the walls were all the usual garage accoutrements. Yard and landscaping equipment. A lawn mower sat off in the far corner, waiting for the groundskeeper. Weed whacker. Assorted tools. Hammer. Box of nails and screws. Yard stick. A packed up set of lawn croquet. Various spare tires, a shovel, on and on, a bike stashed in the corner.

But none of it explained the set up in the closest corner of a computer tower, a set of dual monitors, or the small, black, blinking box humming with a low emission that made Natasha narrow her eyes.

Glancing back once more, she crossed to it and nudged the space bar on the keyboard, wanting to see the display on screen, but unwilling to move the mouse around in case there was some sort of internal security set up that might give her away.

She didn't speak _Grey's Anatomy_ , and while she understood enough tech to do some rather advanced hacking, the screen that came up was so full of medical jargon that even she was a little lost. It appeared to be an advanced set up for signal output and on the right monitor was an image of a brain scan. It didn't seem to move or react, so it was nothing more than an image, and not a live shot of some sort, but the name " _Barnes, J_ " in the bottom corner made her jaw clench.

She didn't need to wonder where they'd gotten their hands on a brain scan of the Winter Soldier, but what was clear was that they'd been studying the pattern in this particular image. She'd spent enough time around Bruce to recognize a low level of activity—lit up a decreasing blue—in his amygdala, the center thought to control emotional memory, as well as contribute to reactions in PTSD patients.

There was a long cord running from the tower, to the monitors, to the little blinking box, and the humming it was emitting seemed to vary, low, high, and a constant, pulsing thrum matched the various equalizers on the second screen.

They were conveniently labelled: EMP and TMS.

So the low level EMP was pulsing every 60 seconds, and the TMS was on a constant level hum, low enough—if she understood it correctly—to not affect anyone in the area but for the sensitive, cognitively altered Winter Soldier.

She sneered.

Good. They were good. _Erwin_ was good, the _bitch_. What better way to keep them apart than to strike while the iron was hot, keep an eye until he was out of range, hit him with a nasty binaural wave, then keep their quarry in what amounted to an invisible cage?

She ducked slightly to see around the box. The wires were thin, easy enough to grab, tug, and snap, severing the output device from the machine doing the talking. The fragile electronics would also be vulnerable if she were to apply just a single Widow's Bite, if she could manage to smuggle them around from where she'd hidden them in her bag. She'd carefully slid them into a little false pocket, and when they'd searched her upon arrival, they'd totally missed it, the amateurs.

Part of her wanted to see if she could manage another sneak outside, so she could find Bucky, assess his condition—there had been something very, _very_ _wrong_ with him the last time they'd spoken that had felt separate from Darcy's captivity—and she wanted to make sure he was alright and ready to act on her signal, not that she knew what it was going to be yet. It surely had something to do with all this equipment, and that made her itch to turn it off even more.

This was another one of those ' _throw me on top of that Chitauri ship_ ' moments, wasn't it? She was being stupid and reckless—and she'd asked Steve to be her accomplice. A man she loved, despite her past and her reservations. A man that was seriously _awful_ at lying.

Well. If he'd slipped by now, she supposed it was just as well.

Come morning, she'd be moving on this.

She couldn't let them inject Darcy with whatever that crap was going to turn out to be. Now that she knew what the problem was, Bruce could patch her up good and quick— _hopefully_ —and they'd be back to normal, at home, in the Tower, having dinner on Friday nights and racing each other to keep up on _Game of Thrones_.

Her and Darcy could sprawl on the couch with drinks and chat.

The guys would come in, all sweaty and worked from a sparring session.

Tony would barge in with takeout pizza and a movie.

Pepper would come in later and try to drag him out like he was a little kid at the grown up's table.

Darcy would laugh and insist he stay.

Oh, _God_ , now she wanted to move back into the Tower.

She'd be better able to keep up with all the SHIELD garbage—stuff like _this_ —if they were there full time.

She reached up to rub her increasingly aching forehead, jumping when the door slowly opened with an ominous creak.

Panic lanced through her sharply, and she tugged at the nearest thread she could manage. " _Killian_ ," she snapped. "When were you planning on _telling_ me about all this?!" She gestured wildly at the equipment as the man in question stepped off the threshold and crossed to her, eyes narrowed.

For a long moment, they stared each other down, Killian willing her to break and Natasha refusing, her mask having long practice holding in place in even the direst of situations—like when you were caught by Captain America ripping classified information onto a flash drive on a freighter, stealing information for your boss that he'd already…oh, never mind. That was still such a mess, that if she looked too closely at it, her past became a knotted tangle too tight to even see through.

And to think, she could've just punched out Sitwell and his expensive tie right then and maybe that might've gone a little more smoothly from the start.

Finally, Killian smiled, that same sly smirk that told her he had other, _meaner_ things than this up his tailored sleeves. "Hm…" He thought for a moment, eyes skyward. "Never." Then he fluttered his lashes at her in a grotesque flirtation likely designed to throw her off. "Why, Ms. Romanoff? Does this in any way change your affiliation?"

She sighed out a long, low snarl, and gestured again, jutting out one hip. "No! I would've come in here and turned up the dial on this thing! I want my revenge on the bitch, damn it, and I don't feel like getting my head caved in by that sniper bastard!"

It worked like a charm. God, he really thought she was this petty, mouthy woman?! She'd have to remember this alias for later…

Aldrich laughed, slinging an arm around her shoulder and turning them, leading her back out of the garage. "Now, now, there's no need to rush things. We have all the time in the world, and then some, Natasha, dear. Not to worry. The good doctor's applications aren't about to fail us, and Mr. Barnes is safely outside the bars of our cage. So don't you worry your pretty, pretty head." He handed her up the step and back into the back hall of the house. "Your little friend will get exactly what she deserves to get, I'll acquire _precisely_ what I've been striving for, as will the doctor, and you'll get all the revenge you crave. Alright?" He spoke soothingly and slowly, like she was a small, tantrum-throwing child.

So she used that to her advantage, rolling her eyes and turning around with a careless air, imploring him to follow her. "Ugh. Fine. But if this starts taking too long, I'm not about to sit around and wait for you and your agenda, Aldrich. I came here for one thing and I will get it. Make no mistake."

To her surprise, his hand landed on her shoulder—not her arm, a much more casual place—but her shoulder, the very curve of it, his fingers wrapping softly around it and turning her around again. She found his face had softened and his eyes had taken on a seductively predatory gleam. "That doesn't, of course, mean that you can't have _other_ things…in the mean time?"

She bit back her sigh. And here it was—the seduction attempt. She really should've penciled it in so she'd have had the perfect response at her fingertips. As it was, she sidled up to him, close—close enough to even throw _him_ off a little—and smiled, that curling grin that drove Steve a little crazy, though he'd never admitted it out loud. "Oh, Killian. You should know: I never mix business with pleasure." And she stalked—carefully swaying her hips in her tight jumpsuit—down the hall back to her room.

When she'd reached her door, he called after her. "Has Captain America ruined other men for you already?"

She paused, halfway through her doorway, to raise a brow at him. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

And she disappeared inside.

((()))

Tony was silent for so long that Steve couldn't stand it for more than a few seconds. "I'm…I'm sorry, Tony. I wanted to tell you, but—"

" _But your wife went in under deep cover and you didn't wanna blow her mission by telling your colleague about it—your_ friend," he finished, cutting him off sharply, his voice still that same level of eerie calm.

Steve swallowed reflexively, unable to drum up what might be taken as an appropriate response. Tony was sharp—sharper than most people gave him credit for, which had never made sense to Steve. The man built robots from scratch, had programmed an entire butler for his house, his cars, his own high-tech suit. How on earth people could take him for anything _but_ sharp was beyond him.

Which was, of course, why Steve was so blasted awful at lying to him. Truly, it was some sort of miracle he'd lasted this long, or that Tony hadn't noticed any tics Steve was sure he displayed. It was all a dead giveaway that Tony was distracted by Darcy's absence from his life.

" _Contrary to popular opinion, I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm also not the brash hothead everyone on earth seems to think I am—although I will punch you the next time we're face-to-face, make no doubt about that, Rogers_."

Steve sighed. "And I'll let you."

Okay, so apparently Tony Stark's snark was ever-present, even in times of anger. Something on the line slammed, then slammed again.

"What was that?"

" _The lab door. I'm locking up and coming out there_."

Steve opened his mouth. "Tony—"

" _Don't fuck with me right now, Steve. I'm meeting you. Now start from the beginning. I want everything. And I mean everything_."

((()))

Natasha configured a plan in the dark that night. She'd check on Darcy, try and nail down a timeline for Erwin, then get into the garage and disconnect the relay for the TMS device that was creating the impenetrable bubble around the house. Then she planned on relaxing a bit and watching Bucky mow down everyone in his path until he got to Darcy, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

Things did not go according to this plan.

She woke much earlier than she'd anticipated to yelling. _Loud_ yelling. Chaotic yelling, arguing, two raw voices, one belonging to a panicked Clytemnestra, the other to Killian.

They weren't loud enough, however, to cover up the bright constant ringing underneath.

Heart stuttering as she recognized the sound, she threw back the covers and slip-slid down the hall in her socked feet, glad she'd chosen to sleep in her relaxed fit gear—black top and full leggings, just in case she needed to be ready to go at all hours.

Sliding into the room like Tom Cruise, she identified the awful sound and could only stand and stare, the Black Widow, utterly slack-jawed.

"I THOUGHT YOU SAID IT WOULD WORK?!"

"YEAH, WELL, I MUST'VE BEEN _WRONG_ , DON'T YOU _THINK_?!"

"THEN I NEED YOU TO _MAKE_ IT WORK! WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME, CLYTEMNESTRA. WE'VE ALREADY GOT TWO AGENTS MISSING AND THE CLOCK IS WINDING DOWN. YOU SAID YOU HAD THINGS IN HAND! YOU _PROMISED_ ME!"

Two missing security guards? _Interesting_.

"I THOUGHT I _DID_! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN _FINE_!" She was nearly in tears.

" _FIX_. _IT_. WHAT THE _FUCK_ DID I HIRE YOU FOR?! YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU'D ISOLATED THE PROBLEM AND THAT YOUR PATCH WOULD _WORK_!"

It clearly hadn't.

The constant ring of a flat-lining heart monitor kept up a soundtrack behind them for accompaniment.

Darcy was limp in her chair, head back, hair an unnatural toss of pretty waves along her shoulders. At a quick glance, she looked to be merely asleep. But her skin was a sickly shade of yellow that jolted Natasha into action. " _What the hell is going on_?!" she snapped.

Erwin was too busy fumbling with her equipment to answer and merely spared her a helpless glance.

Killian turned to her. "Clytemnestra is proving that she isn't even a _fraction_ of the amount of useful that she promised me upon our business agreement three months ago."

Natasha was numb, lost in her own head, awash in a memory. Three months ago. Three months ago, Natasha had been deriving amusement from listening to the whining of Foster and Wanda at not being invited to Darcy's nuptials.

"I can't _believe_ her."

Wanda shook her head. "Like we were never friends."

Natasha snorted, sipping from the glass of wine she'd just poured for herself from the bar in the upstairs lounge. "God, you two are such girls."

Jane's head snapped to the left and she pinned Natasha with a glare. "You mean you _aren't_ upset that Darcy didn't invite you?"

She shrugged. "Why should I be? It's not _my_ party. It's _their_ party. Besides, it would be a little 'pot calling the kettle black', wouldn't it? I mean, Steve and I snuck off to the islands and didn't come back for two weeks."

Wanda made a grumpy noise in her throat. "Except you two were so discreet no one even knew you were an item to begin with."

"And how is that particularly different from Darcy and Buck?"

Jane rolled her eyes. "Well, we knew all about it. We were _invested_."

Natasha couldn't hold back her second snort as she crossed the room. "Oh, _please_. No you weren't."

They both stared at her, looking decidedly affronted.

Settling into the couch in the leather-clad common room, Natasha sighed, eyeing the clock. She had twenty minutes to explain this before Steve came to retrieve her for their date—if he was on time and not early, as usual. It was their six month anniversary and, considering they were both part of an elite squad to protect the earth, they'd come to the agreement that six months should always be marked for the simple sake that they'd made it without the world crumbling around them.

"Listen: you're both smart, right? Wouldn't be here otherwise. So this shouldn't be that difficult a concept to grasp."

She paused to sip again. This was bound to make her tense and she wanted to be loose and relaxed for Steve. He deserved her at her best, not at her most _KGB_.

Wanda cocked her head and stared at her quizzically.

"Simply put, neither of you have taken them very seriously, most of all Darcy."

Wanda blinked.

Jane's mouth fell open.

But neither of them spoke. That in itself was rather gratifying, but she felt compelled to push onward.

"Has James Barnes been guilty of awful things? Yes. Has Darcy done a few fun things in her past that most people would call impulsive? Sure. Everyone's guilty of those things."

Jane's eyebrow rose. " _You_? _Impulsive_?"

She smirked, but refused to be drawn down memory lane in her head. It would just ruin her good mood. "Once upon a time, yes. Don't change the subject. The point is, both of them are perfectly logical adults, and you treated—at the very least _one_ of them—like a child."

Wanda let loose a squawk, but was interrupted.

"James Barnes is a war hero. Not ' _was'_. _Is_. He _is_ a war hero. I was there. When SHIELD fell. I was there every step of the way, some would even say that Steve and I led the charge. The Winter Soldier was a _myth_. He wasn't _real_."

Jane nodded. " _A ghost story_ , yeah, yeah, I know, that's what _everyone_ keeps—"

"But he _was_. And he had to live with the consequences of…someone _else's_ actions. And if you'd seen the look on his face…you'd never doubt, for _one second_ , that he'd rather have fallen off that train and _stayed dead_."

Jane glanced awkwardly down into her lap, where she cradled her own glass of wine.

"Darcy's smart. She'd never have stayed on with you to finish her degree, Foster, if she wasn't, regardless of the fact that you don't even share a research field or the fact that half the time most people don't even realize she's there. Which is fitting, really, because no one really noticed that she'd started to patch up the bleeding mess that was James Barnes until they had to look him in the eye."

She was surprised to find just a spark of something there, in the back of her throat. Was it anger?

"He wasn't some animal at the zoo anymore."

Wanda looked away, her cheeks flaming.

"He was a _person_. And no one really knew what to do with that idea, because that must mean that he needs categorizing. Everyone needs categorizing, yeah? So why not make him the monster of the story, hm? So Darcy…Darcy must be that crazy façade she puts on for the benefit of everyone else, right? Beauty and the _Beast_? How foolish of her, how stupid, how impulsive. Naïve, silly, suicidal, _take your pick_."

Jane flinched.

Yes. It was. Anger. And vindication. A vindication that Natasha knew she could never tell Darcy about.

A soft pinging noise went off. No one noticed.

"I know what it's like to look into someone's face and see judgment. I know what it's like to feel anger and regret and shame. And I have to live with that every day, and no matter how it feels in the light of day, what I can't change, when the lights go out and it's just me in the dark, is that I had a _choice_. I had a choice and while it sounds like something _no one_ would want to stomach, I could've made it _any day_. I could've made my choice. But I didn't. I did their bidding _willfully_."

She drained her glass and set it on the coffee table. "He didn't. He got to wake up and wonder what he'd done this time. He got to go on ride-alongs as a passenger _in his own head_. And he _still_ has to live with the consequences. And Darcy? Darcy was the only one brave enough to look him in the face. There, in that middle ground, no one called anyone a monster, no one called anyone stupid. No one checked anyone for all their limbs or questioned anyone's validity. No one bothered to take the time to understand either of them."

It was silent.

"So is it any wonder that they didn't think to invite you after you'd laughed, scolded, judged and joked?"

Neither of them said anything.

"Am I hurt or angry or upset that I wasn't invited to something as private as an exchange of vows? Am I hurt that the only people invited were the father figure and his wife? No. Not at all. Because if you take the time, and if you have the experience in reading people, if you've got the practice that I've had…seeing through people is so easy, it's not even funny. And I have to live with _that_ for the rest of my life, too."

"Tasha?"

She looked up, startled to find Steve, standing in the elevator's open doorway, watching her with deep eyes, a strange sort of relief there in his expression. Obviously, he'd heard most of what she'd said. "Hey."

"You ready? Reservation's for ten."

She stood, brushed off her skirt, and crossed the room, leaving the girls behind. "Perfect. Look at you, Rogers—you really clean up."

"Natasha? _NATASHA_?! Help Erwin clean up this mess!" Killian snapped, yanking her back to the present with a rough tug.

She blinked rapidly, swallowing back the sensation of months shuffling by at such a rapid speed that they blurred in her vision.

Aldrich gestured wildly. "You _fix._ This. You said your catalyst would work, and now she's good as _dead_. You stick her with that filler and you fix this. I need her. She is the key to my machine, Erwin. You don't fix this—you're both done here."

But Erwin was already brandishing another long, vicious looking needle.

And time slowed.

It slowed so rapidly that even Natasha wasn't fast enough to stop it. She lunged forward for the doctor's hand, but missed, catching empty air and stumbling blindly into Darcy, half sprawling in her lap and finding herself staring up into her friend's empty face, and she felt the jerk the moment the needle was emptied into her friend's jugular vein.

Too late.

She pulled herself slowly back, her own heart plummeting into her stomach, the only thought swirling in her otherwise empty mind that Bucky would be eternally shattered and forever irretrievable.

There was a long, hollow moment where all three of them stood there, staring at Darcy's unmoving form, the unchanging tone of the flat heart rate monitor filling the room.

Natasha was strangely unfamiliar with personal grief of this sort, and she sprawled in her mind, uncertain where to go, what to do now, what her next move was supposed to be, totally and completely paralyzed with sorrow.

And then, like an episode of _ER_ —only this one wasn't poorly overdubbed in Russian—Darcy's body jerked, gave a low shudder, and she gasped in a violent breath of air, her eyes snapping open, her hands curling into fists.

But Natasha didn't have time to feel relief or joy.

She was already moving, running, careless of who saw her, for the garage door. She burst in, stumbling clumsily down the step and catching herself on a shelf before she face-planted on the concrete floor.

But between that step and the next, a hand had grabbed up a fistful of her long hair and yanked her painfully back and off her feet.

She landed in a messy heap on the cold stone flooring, the wind knocked mercilessly out of her, and she stared, gasping, up into Clytemnestra Erwin's face.

The doctor sneered. "Thought you'd take the opportunity to fix things, hm?"

Natasha sat up as gracefully as she could, dropping all pretense. She was tired. Holy _fuck_ , she was _tired_ , and why not cut the bullshit once and for all, hm? It had been long enough, and it wasn't as though this sort of ending hadn't been looming this entire time, a seriously distinct possibility from the get-go. She dusted off her hands and leveled the woman with a cool look. "How long have you been in love with Killian?"  
Erwin flushed. "Too long. Why do you think I stick around and deal with his _bullshit_? How long have you been working on that alibi that you were out for revenge?"

Natasha snorted, pulling herself neatly to standing. "Oh, since I walked in the door. Yeah."

Erwin nodded as though this made a casual, careless sort of sense. "Right, yeah."

"That's not your only goal, though, is it, Erwin?" Natasha sneered. "You wouldn't let Aldrich Killian treat you like dirt just for something as pedestrian as _love_. What do _you_ get out of all of this?"

Oh, yeah, they were all walls down, now.

Erwin crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back on a shelf. "Tony Stark's heart on a plate."

Natasha took a moment to digest that unexpected morsel. _Tony_? She paused for a second, thinking back. No. No, Stark hadn't gotten into any trouble for a while now-

"He was working the track, in Monaco. That day."

The bottom of Natasha's stomach fell clean out.

Erwin sneered. "You remember? Yeah. I know you were there. Ivan Vanko and his suit. You remember him too?"

Nodding, she took a small, inconsequential step to the left, edging closer to the electronics set up in the corner.

"My brother was working the track that day when he went on his rampage against Stark. He was blown to bits in the first crash around the bend." She growled, mirroring Natasha's movements. "We never even got a body to bury. They said the blast had been so hot, he'd been vaporized instantly."

Natasha rolled her eyes. For God's sake, she'd really defied expectations. Here, Natasha had thought she'd stumbled across a disturbingly ordinary woman in all this, and really she was so _painfully derivative_.

 _Again_.

She took another step.

Erwin mirrored her again. "I help him with _this_ , he's going to give me an avenue to Stark."

Another step.

Another.

Then another, and again, and again.

"And then what?"

Erwin sneered again, the expression particularly icy, having seen her grin and laugh. "Well, then I choose which one of his friends would cause him the most pain to lose. Same as he did to me."

 _God_. So unoriginal.

Little did she know, the easiest avenue to that end was in the other room, at Killian's mercy.

Just then, a horrible crash echoed from deeper in the house, rapidly followed by a bellow.

They stared at each other.

"You wanna go check that out?" Natasha offered, using the moment to her advantage and diving for the monitors on the wall.

She came down short, Erwin's tiny hand snagging the right ankle of her legging and ripping her from the air.

But Natasha tucked her legs as she went down, bringing the doctor to the floor with her, where they landed in a tangle of limbs.

Kicking, Natasha was able to free herself, but only long enough for the other woman to yank again at her hair, grabbing at her shirt, and swinging her back toward the door.

She landed half on the step, her ribs protesting violently as she gasped for breath. But she was able to collect herself well enough to haul out a hard kick when she sensed the girl behind her and she grinned as Erwin sprawled back, crying out in pain, and landing on her ass on the concrete.

Another crash and another desperate, pleading shout from the house.

This time, Natasha was able to throw herself across the room and successfully reach the computer set up. She wrapped a hand around the connecting cables and pulled, yanking them desperately out of the humming signal box.

There was a huge flash, a deafening zap and crackle, Natasha let everything go with a shout of pain, and the garage went dark. Or, at least, as dark as was possible during daylight hours.

Another hard crash from the house, this one complete with the shattering of glass.

" _Bitch_!" Erwin snarled in the darkness, but Natasha had the advantage of clearer sight in low light, and she paused only long enough to hook her in the throat, making her choke as she grabbed at her chest. That left her open for Natasha to yank her into the nearest shelf, cracking her head once, twice, and letting her drop, unconscious, to the concrete floor.

Breathless, Natasha straightened her clothing, then picked her up, hauling her across the garage. "Yeah. I know. I've heard that before." And she hefted her over her shoulder and through the window of the attachment, sending her falling through it with a crash. "There. That outta suffice, signal wise. Come out and play, Winter Soldier."


	10. Chapter 10: Waiting For Superman

**Chapter 10** **: Waiting For Superman**

 **Summary:** **In which some things are righted and some things are not.**

 **Notes:** **Whew. Okay, we're finally back to our regularly scheduled program, people. Sorry for the delay, but it was that usual thing where every time I sat down to post, something came up, or-God forbid-I fell asleep in front of Top Gear WAY earlier than I meant to.** **So, sorry for that. Anyhoo, I think this might be the chapter some of you were freaking out about. Please, please, please, let me know how you like it. :)** **As usual, I DO NOT OWN MARVEL. Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Daughtry. Seriously good, go check it out!**

 **((()))**

Bucky figured that bodies being thrown out of second story windows was what most people would call a signal. Jumping into action, he began toward the house, holding his breath as he approached the rocks he'd used to mark out the barrier during his scouting of the perimeter. He let it out as his lead foot past right by it.

God. Bless. Natasha Romanoff.

There were two security agents covering the side of the house on the beach approach, but they were distracted by a sudden cry—masculine in tone—from inside the house. Heart pounding, he was able to snap the neck of one before the second even noticed his presence.

Eyes wide, he raised his rifle to fire off a shot, but he was too slow. Bucky ducked gracefully, coming at him from the side. He wrapped his metal hand around the barrel of the gun and tugged it out of the agent's hands, tossing it aside carelessly.

Jerking in panic, the agent turned and began to dart the other way, but Bucky latched onto the straps of his gear and pulled him over, upside down and right side up, until he was unconscious on the sand.

Bucky stood there, breathless, staring down at him. He was ordinary looking, just the sort of guy you'd hire if you wanted a strong back that kept his head down and his mouth shut.

If he left him alive, that was a loose end—a loose end that could come back and bite him in the ass later. He'd learned that the hard way.

But if he killed him…

He paused, weighing the decision in his mind.

He couldn't keep on tracking a tally. And he'd been labeled a killer long enough. Did he want to do anything to keep the title, no matter how deserved?

Another shout from the house—this one female and decidedly familiar—distracted him from the choice and he left the agent laying on the beach, taking the deck stairs two at a time.

The view he had was enough to shock even him, stilling his feet on the stained wood of the deck, like something out of an action movie, with explosions in the background while the two heroes walked away in slow motion and Darcy giggled against his shoulder at the abrupt silliness of it.

She was there, right in front of him.

After spending the past handful of days sick with worry over her condition, the vision of her now completely baffled him.

She certainly didn't look like she'd been tortured.

She looked…

 _Pissed_.

The man he recognized from all of his late-night file sifting as Aldrich Killian was backed into the corner of the room, Darcy boxing him in.

And Darcy—looking for everything like she was in a Victoria's Secret commercial—was close up on him, crowding him threateningly, as though she wasn't entirely certain what her next step was supposed to be. Her white silk robe was barely decent, knotted at her narrow, hourglass waist and rucked up her thigh, short here, longer there. Her hair was a wild mane down her back and her face was pale from what little he could see of it.

For all his sickening worry, she looked like a Valkyrie, a beautiful bright thing on the attack. He blinked several times to make sure his eyes weren't fooling him—after all, he'd barely slept since this all had started.

They appeared to be in a stand-off, Darcy's hands around the inventor's throat.

Bucky wasn't sure what to do. He'd never seen her look quite that way before. She was milk pale, but she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her expression was murderous, blind rage in her eyes.

She looked like some sort of avenging angel.

She and Killian were clearly squaring off from where she'd broken her bindings. There was some sort of industrial secure on the floor, ripped to shreds where it had fallen off one of the kitchen chairs, and Bucky raised a brow at the evidence of what had to be her independent escape. The couch was overturned, the side tables were tipped, and there were medical supplies strewn everywhere, the pole with a bag of suspicious fluid toppled over the area rug, leaking.

"Now, let's just _take a deep breath_ , Darcy," Killian was saying in a nice, soothing, harmless voice, his handsome face carefully neutral as he held up both hands in a gesture of trust and innocence.

But Darcy didn't feel like talking. She lunged forward and punched out, hooking Killian in the shoulder, and the inventor stumbled back.

Surprise flickered over his face, and for a moment, he looked something akin to nervous.

Bucky hovered, watching with a tense scowl, desperate to intervene, and, at the same time, unwilling to breech whatever Darcy had taken as her mission.

He vaguely wondered if he'd looked like that as the Winter Soldier: lethal and cold, unfeeling and hot with rage. Of course, who was he kidding? He'd forced himself to watch a lot of the footage—not as much as Darcy had, but more than enough—and the images of himself as not-himself still sat, like a lead ball, in his stomach. The emptiness in his eyes was too eerie to bear.

It completely changed her face.

He wasn't sure he liked it. Of course, she was still his Darcy—she'd always be his Darcy—but cold discomfort slid through his blood at the mirror-like effect the expression on her face had on his memory.

"Darcy—" Aldrich tried again, squaring his feet to face her defensively. "Sweetie, now let's try and calm do—"

He was cut off as she lunged at him again, snapping her leg up to knee him in the stomach, her left fist striking up, flicking his jaw back and his head cracked the wall behind him.

" _I'm not your sweetie_ ," Darcy snarled, using her momentum to shove him back further.

He was propelled over the side of the overturned couch, and flipped lithely over right-side up, his own serum giving him his own advantage. _Extremis_ , Bucky remembered from the file.

He'd never asked Tony about the Mandarin. Bucky had found that, since his own…transformation, he had an uncanny sense of intuitiveness with other people.

Tony _didn't want to talk about it_.

Bucky knew everything, of course. The twisted inventor determined to overcome his own deformity, using injured vets to gain his own means. Tony's nightmares after the Battle of New York. The suits. Pepper's death.

He sighed. He didn't want the sequel here in this Hawaiian beach house, and he was pretty sure that Stark would be devastated by this turn of events. Not only would he be livid and disturbed that Killian was still alive, he'd be absolutely inconsolable over Darcy.

Bucky was fairly certain that in the time he'd known the eccentric billionaire, he only saw the man look that warm and affectionate over two people: Darcy, and his own wife.

Stark was _not_ going to be happy about this.

"Did you get what you wanted, Aldrich?!" Darcy snapped, advancing on him again, more slowly this time, clenching her fists at her sides. "Did you get your _freak_ , the _tool_ you wanted?! _Did I turn out the way you'd hoped_?!"

"Erwin!" Killian called, presumably for backup.

Bucky calculated that may have been the body he'd seen Natasha throw out that second-story window—his signal—and wondered if the fall had killed her, whoever she was.

"The guards are dead, Killian," Darcy sneered, still advancing. "The Winter Soldier is good at picking off strays, and whoever he misses will be mopped up by—"

"The _Spider_ ," Aldrich filled in, growling. "I knew she wasn't on the up-and-up. Thought I had her—"

"Under control?" Darcy smiled. "You think a woman that could marry _Captain America_ would be a woman you could _control_ _and predict_? No one's coming for you, Killian. You're left with your creation. You know, the girl you had strapped to a chair for three days, no clothes, no food or water, and nothing but _injections_. You're left with _WHAT YOU MADE ME_!"

As she stepped forward, Bucky had to blink as she… _rippled_.

He blinked again.

An eerie foreboding chilled down his spine at the image of her as she moved, her form rippling as she approached, rapidly and only for a split second. Her whole body flickered in his gaze, the air around her crackling with static.

She met Aldrich in the middle of the room and they met in a grappling grip, Darcy's small hands clamping down on his throat just the way Bucky had shown her.

Killian's hands wrapped defensively around Darcy's upper arms, tight, the muscles there cording with effort. " _Erwin_!" he called again.

"She can't hear you, Aldrich," Darcy snarled, breathless in anger and effort as she tightened her grip, increasing pressure on Killian's windpipe. "Your cat's been hunted down by the little mouse."

"I could say a really cheesy line about cats having nine lives, but I'll save it and we'll just operate under the effect that I already put it out there, shall we?" he half growled, half choked, squeezing, his hands beginning to glow a soft orange.

Darcy held on.

After a moment, the silk sleeves of her robe began to smoke, singe marks appearing, the thin, delicate fabric blackening with char.

Darcy still held her own, but just the tiniest tightening around her eyes had Bucky moving, finally, into the room, his strides long and determined.

" _Erwin_!" Killian called again, tightening his grip still more.

"She's _dead_ ," Bucky said, his voice low. " _Took a flying leap_."

Aldrich jumped, the color draining from his face, his ears going red.

Bucky snatched him by the hair and yanked him back, the inventor's grip snapping as he slid across the floor on his ass.

Darcy stumbled back and caught herself against the far wall, breathless as she studied the handprints left by her torturer.

"The Winter Soldier." Killian smiled, casual and calm as he hauled himself back up and dusted himself off, smoothing his designer clothes. "I've always wanted to meet you face-to-face. You were always like a…myth, to me, a—"

" _Ghost story_?" he offered coolly.

The smile again, wide and confident. "You _do_ exist. And quite handsomely, in fact."

He gave him a grim smirk. "I'm told I'm quite the looker."

Aldrich nodded. "Mm," he hummed in the affirmative.

"Won't hurt any less when I kill you."

Killian pouted, edging to the right bit by bit. "Aw. Did I bruise your ego, locking you out like that? Hurting your mate, you're cute little _She-Wolf_."

Bucky clenched his jaw, but didn't bother to reply, that muscle ticking in his cheek that Darcy had mentioned was scary-sexy.

"Sorry, _not_ sorry. See, I needed what was in her blood. Nothing personal."

He cocked his head. "You sure? Because it kinda _feels_ personal."

Killian struck—or tried to—his hands glowing like something out of an old sci-fi radio show he and Steve would've avidly listened to, trying to guess what would happen next. They were yellow, then orange, then a blazing red, making the air around them ripple with heat.

He lashed out, moving for the sensitive mechanics of Bucky's arm, but Bucky only used it to block him. He struck out with his right hand, catching him in the collar bone.

Darcy lashed out from the other side, bashing him in the head with the flat of her palm.

Killian tore free of Bucky's grip and made a snatch at her, but was blocked by Bucky's arm again. He grabbed at the metal, but when his fiery grip landed, it did nothing but shore up a load of sparks, hissing with heat and steam. His eyes widened in shock, and his face paled as he realized half of his advantage was nearly useless—at least against this opponent.

Bucky wrenched it free and wrapped his bionic hand around his neck, lifting him and throwing him viciously aside.

But Killian bounced back quickly, lunging back up to his feet in time to snatch at Darcy's arm, yanking her close, his Extremis serum at least giving him what appeared to be an advantage there. "See, you weren't complete before, Darcy, dear," he sneered as he tugged on her to keep his grip. "Didn't you wonder why you felt so awful? I fixed you." He smiled. "I _fixed_ you. Aren't you glad? I made you whole again—and better than before. Like _me_."

Darcy snarled, yanking her arm free with surprising ease, and swinging around with her other arm to nail him in the throat with her elbow.

Killian stumbled back, gasping desperately for air as he clutched at his throat, eyes wide.

Darcy advanced, using his distraction to knee him in the groin, sending him sprawling on the hardwood.

Bucky hauled him up by his shoulder, all his rage pooling in his belly. "What did you do to her?" he growled. " _What did you do to her_?!"

He merely coughed helplessly, clutching at his throat.

" _Stuck me full of needles_ ," Darcy snarled, approaching again.

But Bucky held out his human arm, blocking her.

"What did you do, Killian? I can make you talk. You _know_ that. And if _I_ can't, I'm sure _Tony Stark_ would love to get his hands on you."

Killian drew a ragged breath. "You don't understand. Lukin was slowly killing her. I _fixed_ her. I completed her serum. It was designed to be used in tandem!" And he smiled. "She was _allergic_ —to _you_. _Hah_!" And he started laughing, loudly, and with a maniacally-tinged whisper to it.

Bucky hauled him the rest of the way up, growling.

Killian took the opportunity to lash out again, but was blocked by the arm.

Darcy took aim from his other side, yanking Killian's hair back, and the two of them wrestled him to the floor, arms behind his back. "This feels seriously anticlimactic," she muttered, as Killian flailed, trying to get a grip on them with his powerful hands again, and failed. "You gonna kill him?"

He shook his head as he pressed his mechanical elbow to Killian's throat, pausing in silence until his eyes drifted shut and carried him into unconsciousness. He held his own breath, wondering how long Darcy had in her. Serum, or not, adrenaline or not, her body was surely in shock. She'd only go so long. He knew that for a fact, his own memories dancing too close to the surface. "He knows too much; he's valuable."

She opened her mouth to argue, her face a slash of anger and frustration.

They didn't have time to talk, though. Gunfire rained down on them from the deck, and they pressed close to the floor, effectively ending their discussion.

Natasha chose that moment to burst in, breathless, her eyes lingering on them for just a split second in relief. "Time to go. Leave him. We don't have time. There are too many outside. He must've called in support when—" She abruptly cut off, her eyes lingering on Darcy in a rare look of hesitation.

Bucky jerked to his feet, shoving aside the feeling of trepidation that look conjured. Natasha rarely hesitated over anything, rarely looked anything remotely like _vulnerable_. "The perimeter?"

She shook her head, swallowing thickly. "I'll distract them." She threw a set of keys across the room and Bucky easily caught them. "I assumed you'd want the Jag?"

"You assumed correctly," Bucky replied, palming the keys.

Natasha's lip curled in her signature smirk and she led them out the door onto the drive. "I'll be right behind y—"

But she didn't get to finish as a thug all in black combat gear swung around the corner of the house and raised his automatic rifle.

Natasha ducked.

Bucky dragged Darcy around the other corner just as the rounds fired, the stylish stone exterior of the house flying into tiny little projectiles, dust blooming in the humid air. "Shit," he muttered. "Darce?"

"I'm good," she said, but her voice was soft and low, not at all the hellcat she'd been a moment ago.

Much as he'd suspected, she was flagging, her adrenaline crashing, her body too stressed by all that they'd done to her. He'd learned her well, after all, all her facial tics and vocal cues.

"I'm…I'm fine."

He pulled her more tightly against his body just as she went limp, her eyes slipping closed, her skin awash in a pale, ashy pallor.

" _Goddamnit_ ," he snarled as more rounds went off. " _Perfect_ timing." He couldn't get them both out with submachine fire. Himself, sure. He'd go pick off the guy, no problem, and eliminate the threat. But not with an unconscious Darcy. And there was no way in hell he was leaving her here to go pick him off alone. Natasha had said there were too many. The property was likely crawling, snipers in the wings. He doubted any of them were as good as he was, but he liked to be humble once in a while.

He peeked around the corner just in time to see Natasha—having crept somehow around the house, perhaps through the garage—stepping up behind the guard. She looped her arm around his throat and tugged.

Bullets sprayed the air upwards in a tail before rapidly cutting off as she swung him around and down onto his back, where she heeled him in the throat, snapping his neck cleanly.

Their eyes met for just a second in acknowledgement.

Then they both started moving, Bucky cradling Darcy against him as he moved for the Jaguar and Natasha for the BMW.

More bullets ricocheted as he pushed Darcy's door shut, and he ducked, diving around to the driver's side. Breaking human land speed records, he was sure, he ducked into the seat and slammed the door behind him. Had he had the time to spare, he'd have paused to relish the soft purr of the engine as he started up the car.

But he didn't have time.

He threw it into Drive and floored the gas, shooting down the driveway, Natasha hot on his backend in the German coupe.

He only glanced in the rearview mirror once, but all he could see, as Natasha peeled off the main road in the other direction, was concrete dust.

((()))

He kept driving.

He didn't stop.

The only distraction he allowed himself was to reach over and check Darcy's pulse: strong, but thread-y, uneven and sluggish, even though the rhythm itself was hard against his fingertips.

" _Fuck_ ," he murmured, looking down to study the dash.

Air conditioning.

Heating.

Digital readout.

Stereo, with—he did a survey of the car—probably ten speakers, all hidden away.

This was a new F-Type, and—he gunned the gas again, listening with a smirk—a Supercharged V8. This thing would haul ass. And it was small and maneuverable, low to the ground.

Thank God.

Okay, so he'd stay with this puppy as long as he could and hope they either hadn't been followed by some good fortune and lack of planning on Killian's part—he winced at the giant loose end they'd left behind—or that their pursuers would be so far behind it would be hopeless.

She looked awful.

Pale as death, her hair in tangles down her back. Her robe was barely covering her, but he didn't dare cause her to stir. There were deep, purple shadows beneath her eyes and though she'd apparently been enhanced, it was clear she'd gone some days without food or water. There were red lashes on her wrists, and—he craned too see around her form, all curled around herself in the passenger seat—her ankles. The silk of the material was charred at the shoulders, torn, and streaked in places with blood.

She looked exactly like he'd felt. Then. In that prison camp.

Gutted and hollow, aching from whatever Zola had decided to do to him on any particular occasion.

He'd gotten her back, finally, after what had felt like an eternity.

But that knowledge was cold comfort now.

He tipped his head back and glanced in the rearview mirror at the deceivingly cheerful Hawaiian sunshine, warm and sweet.

He'd just have to hope he was capable of getting them back to New York without either of them getting killed.

With mercenaries and an insane inventor on their tail, God knew what on their agendas. Tony Stark's polar opposite was bound to cause trouble.

But that didn't matter.

All that mattered was keeping Darcy safe.

He huffed out a desperate sigh and glanced down at the GPS.

Sure. He could do this. No problem. Nothing to worry about.

He groaned. " _Congratulations on your new marriage_."

((()))

Exhausted beyond anything he could ever recall in the last sixty-odd years, Bucky pulled into the tiny motel and parked, taking stock of the pitted lot. Empty, but for one other car, a beat-up old Buick with a rusted out hole where the gas tank should be. He checked Darcy's pulse again and locked the doors.

The office was tiny, the motel a throwback to the ones he vaguely remembered, all one large building, long and low, with little rooms split up, a queen size bed and a half bath. It was rundown, the robin's egg blue paint peeling and the plaster falling off in places. The 'Vacancy' sign was half burnt out and the red neon was flickering.

Perfect spot to lay low. The sort of place people went to shoot up or meet their second wife for a cheap tryst. He'd just pull the Jag around the back and hope their pursuers were far enough back and just enough stupid to miss them.

The little bell jangled as he went in, and the little old lady at the counter glanced up from her cheap romance novel in annoyance. Her black hair was a cheap dye-job and he could see her gray roots from the doorway. Her native Hawaiian skin was deeply lined, but still pretty, if not for her grouchy expression. "I ain't got change," she said.

Okay, then, he wouldn't waste any of his valuable, flagging energy on false charm. "Don't need change, just a room." It was just ridiculously lucky that when he'd grabbed his shorts that awful morning, his wallet had still been in his pocket.

No such luck on his Starkphone, though. They were drifting.

She stood, all business, and set down her open paperback on her current page. "How many? Just you?"

"One other," he offered, determined not to volunteer any more information than was strictly necessary. He'd been doing this long enough that the bad guys would never know all the nuances it took to move under the radar. Hopefully he knew a few they didn't, sixty years of experience maybe paying off in a good way this time.

She nodded, frowning as she punched buttons on her register. "Couple's retreat?" she sneered, apparently playing for wry humor as she glanced at his wedding band. She didn't mention that it was on the wrong hand.

"You have no idea," he replied, forcing a cool smile.

He almost handed over the Stark Company card, but his own reflection in the blank, stylish, statement-making black plastic reminded him that, while comforting that Tony could track them through it, the possibility that Killian could as well was less so. He slid it back into its pocket and counted out two crisp twenties, slapping them on the rundown desk as he read her novel's cover upside-down.

 _The Soldier's Secret Bride_ , it read in crimson cursive letters, the ribbon of the printing forming a graceful circle, within which stood a swooning couple. The woman was in a ridiculous red dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up to there. She was swooning against the guy—the husband, presumably—all dressed To the Nines in his dress blues, gold scroll-work and all. He bent to kiss her throat, his gloved hands cradling the small of her back.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Room 12," the woman said, no-nonsense, and slapped the key down on the desk. Then she saw his glance and smirked. "You a soldier?"

He took the key and turned to go on his way. "Depends who you ask."

It was difficult getting Darcy into the room. She wasn't heavy for him, of course, but the dual worries of not jostling her and not being seen by any passing cars was heavy in his chest. Once she was settled on the surprisingly clean looking bed, he rushed out again to pull the Jag around the back of the building.

The room was done all in shades of awkward pink. Darcy would call it '80's Dusty Rose' and the wallpaper was peeling, the tiny flower pattern worn and pocked. The furniture was just as battered. The carpet was stained here and there with things Bucky would rather not focus too hard on. The bed, though wasn't too bad, the mattress seemingly recent, the bedclothes clean and neat. The bathroom had a standing sink and a tiny shower stall. The mirror was cracked in one corner, but otherwise clean.

She was still out when he returned from the car.

There was a bruise blossoming on the apple of her right cheek. Conversely, the red lashes on her wrists and ankles were fading, likely due to whatever Killian had shot her up with. That was one nasty bruise, if it was even coming to the surface.

His heart heavy, he went into the bathroom—also surprisingly clean—and wetted down a washcloth with warm water from the sink, flicking on the cheap TV set on his way past and setting it on low volume.

"Mike, did you want to tell us what kind of weather we can expect over the next few days?" the anchorwoman asked, all bright smiles and sunny, blond hair. "I can see you've got your umbrella all set. Is rain coming our way?"

Bucky rolled his eyes.

The camera switched to the weather map, the suited weather man standing there, sure enough, with a blue umbrella. He laughed. "We've got some storms on the way, Dana, that's for sure." He detailed the rain that would make up the block of the weather for most of the week before handing it over to the sports caster.

Good.

Rain would slow their pursuers down while he scrambled for a way to get them back to the Mainland. Once he did that, they could tear their way back to New York, or at least far enough inland that he could track Tony down.

Darcy stirred, pressing her face against the coolness of the washcloth, her brow pinching in a frown.

He paused.

But she didn't wake.

The news continued, the anchors droning on about local news, a shooting here, Grand Theft Auto there. He sighed as he worked his way down Darcy's body. Her bruises were fading already and the redness where her bindings had been was largely gone.

He examined her but found nothing out of the ordinary. Just the deep shadows under her eyes, and her tangled hair. He couldn't do much for that right now…

He studied the bedclothes again and determined they were pretty immaculate compared to the rest of the room in general.

Sighing again, he very carefully positioned her on her back, holding his breath in the hopes he didn't wake her.

When she continued to slumber, he undid the knot of her silk robe and slid it off her, one arm, then the other, gliding the slippery material out from under her back, revealing her ribs, more visible than the last time he'd seen all her skin, not four days ago.

He winced, running the pads of his fingers over her narrow waist, her hips sharp against his palms.

She stirred again, murmuring softly.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered, pulling back the sheets. Flinching, he tucked her in, his heart squeezing hard in his chest as she curled in on herself.

He stood in the doorway for a long while, worry clawing at his gut as he palmed the Jag's keys. There was nothing else for it. He had no choice.

And besides—she'd rather proved that she could hold her own, and a number of times, now.

Sighing again, he left her there, locking the door behind him and peeling out of the parking lot going much too fast, in the direction of town.

He followed the highway signage and eventually pulled up to a small, ordinary looking strip mall and got out, surveying the largely empty parking lot.

The pharmacy had all the assorted toiletries they'd need, and the little tourist stop next door took care of the rest. He'd long ago learned to make his stops few and multi-tasked.

The tourist place had no one in it but for two young girls, poking around in the back. The guy at the counter glanced up from his tablet and nodded to him, picking up the remote to change the channel on the TV blaring behind the counter.

He went to the back, sighing at being consigned to wearing 'I-heart Hawaii' t-shirts for the foreseeable future. At least until they holed up somewhere with a mall. He'd kill for a big box store right now—kill. They had a wide array, though, so he stood there for a few minutes, surveying the least obnoxious choices. Surf boards, tropical flowers, beach sunsets… _Ugh_.

A giggle caught his attention and he glanced left to find two eyes staring at him from behind a rack of board shorts.

One of the girls.

Those eyes were wide and green in her young face. Too young. Barely fifteen, if he took a guess. She was blond and thin—very thin—which only drove home how young she was. She'd barely filled out, lacking all of Darcy's full curves.

Her friend nudged her and they laughed again, looking away, blushes coloring their faces. Her friend was blond as well, with a high pony and shorts that were so short they left little to the imagination. Good God, what had happened to feminine dresses and pretty skirts?

Feeling old—which felt strangely familiar and comfortable—he ignored them and went back to the shirts. Spotting some that seemed innocuous, with just printed 'Hawaii' logos on them, he pulled four off the shelf, two in blue, and two in gray, pondering Darcy's size, before stepping back again to survey things.

Another giggle, considerably closer now, made him jump. Sighing, he rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt at containing his impatience. For God's sake…

It was laughable, really. Almost. Had they not noticed his arm? He was in only a t-shirt, the mechanical appendage completely exposed. If they knew who he was and what he was capable of, they'd run for the hills.

Of course, that hadn't scared Darcy off. She apparently found some of that stuff 'edgy', as she'd said. Somewhere between scary and sexy. Scary for other people—apparently that made it sexy. He wasn't sure how he felt about that…

He turned and hooked around the back for the racks with shorts, chewed on his lip for a second, did a little math in his head, and pulled off two pairs for Darcy, smiling as he scooped up a pair of leggings and snatched up some board shorts for himself.

But as he turned for the flip-flops with a grimace, he found his way blocked.

"Hi," the first girl said. Pony Tail giggled behind her.

He raised a brow. Braver than he'd thought. "Hi," he returned, trying hard to be kind, despite the icy shards of fear and anger still rushing through his veins.

"I'm Lucy."

He sighed. "Hi," he repeated, turning to move around them.

"What's your name?" she asked, voice high and nasally, and he had the errant though that Darcy would've called her a Valley Girl with a roll of the eyes. Not that he knew what that particular reference meant yet.

He clenched his fists, the idea wandering through his head that wouldn't it be just an appropriate touch of dark humor if these two were really agents from HYDRA, and the two of them were seriously screwed? "James," he said shortly, seeing no reason not to be honest. Lies only complicated things down the line.

"That's really cool," she chirped, glancing at his arm. So she had noticed… "Is it real?"

He sighed, standing and staring at the sandals in irritation. This was all he needed—two pubescent admirers. He was flattered, really, but he seriously _did not_ have time right now to let them down easy. And he was _so_ taken that he figured most other guys—insecure as they would likely be—would laugh and call him whipped. Not, of course, that that described his relationship with Darcy in the slightest. He was comfortable enough in his masculinity to admit that he was _head over heels_ and _totally_ okay with it. "Yes," he relented, selecting a pretty pair for Darcy with a jeweled clasp before spying, with relief, a pair of slip on board sneakers for himself. Thank God, no flip-flops. Flip-flops did not lend well to high-speed chases in a Jaguar.

He saw at least one high-speed chase in their rather immediate future. He'd always been one to prepare.

" _Really_?!" Lucy asked, cheeks pinking. "Um…listen, we're going to a party later. On the beach. You should come."

He skirted around her, making a bee-line for the register and the clerk, who gave him a sympathetic look as he turned the volume down on the television. "Thanks, but, uh…no. I'm good."

"Oh," Lucy said, looking disappointed. "You're too busy?"

He set everything down on the counter. "I'm too _old_. And a little too taken."

Very, _very_ taken.

Pony Tail burst out laughing as Lucy's face turned bright red. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."

He smiled, handing over more cash. "It's okay. Thanks, though."

The two of them made their own bee-line to the door, and the chime sounded as they rushed out.

The clerk was smirking as he handed over his bag and Bucky wondered if he was blushing too.

So, more irritable than when he'd started, he got back in the Jag and high-tailed it back to the tiny motel as three o'clock rounded.

Much to his relief, the door was still locked.

But much to his frustration, Darcy was still curled in a tight little shape, out cold. Whatever had been done to her was serious if she was out this long. It had been hours, now. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Six hours, in fact.

In his experience, nothing good ever came from being out that long. If he'd had his phone, he'd have called Bruce, but—he looked around the room—there wasn't a landline in here either.

Cursing under his breath, he sat gingerly down beside Darcy over the covers. "C'mon, dollface," he murmured to her. He picked up her hand, feeling her skin for pallor, but she seemed fine. The pulse at her wrist had evened out now against his fingers. He reached up to run his hands through her hair and over her skull, but found everything smooth and intact. No bruising, no redness, no nothing. Her color looked perfect and her pupils—after a careful check—were even and normal.

Her heart rate was average to high—but they'd already established that was due to the serum—and her neck and spine were perfectly intact.

Sighing, he tugged the blankets off to take stock of the rest of her, trying not to feel cheap as he ran his hands along her arms and legs, feeling each joint as he went along.

With the exception of some blood streaked along her right arm—obviously where they'd injected her—there wasn't a scratch on her. He studied the injection site, but that appeared closed up and healed already also.

He sighed again, slumping half over in the bed, propped on a hand around her waist. "Well. We're in a pickle, aren't we?" he asked her, unsure why he was bothering when it was clear she wasn't going to spontaneously reply.

God, he'd kill for his Starkphone too, actually. _Kill_ someone.

He just hoped Killian hadn't found it anywhere. There was information on it that shouldn't be out there—especially with the bad guys.

So he dragged himself up, checked the lock again and went into the bathroom. When all the nasty stuff had gone down, he'd been out for a swim and he'd spent the last four days covered in a thin layer of salt water. It was making him itch. He didn't want to know what it might be doing to the mechanics in his arm—Bruce and Tony would flip out.

He left the door slightly ajar and turned on the spray, stripping down with rushed relief. He stood under the shower head for so long he lost track of time, the water scalding hot, hissing on his bionic arm.

Some honeymoon.

He knew Darcy would blame herself and the episodes that her serum plagued her with. Of course, it wasn't her fault. It was HYDRA's fault. Anger coursed harshly through him and he wanted to punch the off-white tiling in the shower and watch the porcelain crack and crumble into dust.

They couldn't catch one _Goddamn_ break, could they? One short span of time where the world wasn't falling apart around them.

And Darcy. Darcy deserved better than this. Darcy deserved to be able to sleep through the night, and to be able to get through the day without a headache, and to be able to recognize her own body.

God, even for him, the transition hadn't been so bad.

His old friend despair reared his ugly head and Bucky was overcome with a wave of homesickness so strong that for the first time in years, he wanted Sarah back.

Of course, he'd always wanted her back, ever since that awful night…

But the power of that old grief was suddenly so strong he wanted to curl up in a little ball and hide, like he did when he was a small boy.

She always knew what to do. And if she didn't, she sure as hell was there with a slice of pie and the warmest hugs he'd ever been able to find anywhere.

She'd been more a mother to him than his own real one.

He wanted to go home.

 _Home_ , home.

So badly, his chest hurt.

Things were _simple_ there. There were no Neo-Nazis, no crazed scientists, no suicide bombers, no rogue agents, and nothing to hurt _his Darcy_.

He wanted to go back to February. It felt like a lifetime ago now, Valentine's Day. Those few weeks after she'd moved in had been perfect. Sleeping in, coffee in the morning, a little training, some ops. Darcy pressed against him at night, her ring glinting newly off the low light. A warm bed. Someone to come home to.

The thought that they'd had it so firmly in hand barely long enough to enjoy it made his stomach clench in frustration.

Was it really so _Goddamn_ much to ask for a little peace and quiet?! _Really_?! Hadn't he _earned_ as much? Hadn't Darcy _endured_ enough in the past six months? Three weeks. _A lousy three weeks_? They couldn't have a lousy _three weeks_ without their lives going to _shit_?!

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his strangle hold on the soldier within, his black eyes blazing, railing against James Barnes' hold on him. He was just managing to wrestle him back into his cage when the door creaked and he jumped, nearly slipping on the linoleum as he caught himself on the wall.

"Jamie?"

He wrenched the shower curtain back.

Darcy stood there, looking weak and uncharacteristically frail, her eyes deep in her face, her hands in a death grip around the sheet wrapped around her, clearly pulled and dragged from the bed.

For a long moment, he just stared at her, processing the image of her upright and conscious, alive and breathing.

"I woke up and you were gone," she murmured, hunching her shoulders.

Heart pounding, he reached for her silently, tugging the sheet free and tossing it to the floor as he pulled her over the threshold and into the shower with him.

She clung to him, silent and shaking, tucking her face against his chest, her forehead against the spider web of scars that were all that remained of his wrecked left shoulder.

A thousand questions darted through his mind, but suddenly none of them seemed an emergency when she was finally here, in his arms, alive.

They stood there, under the spray for what felt like an eternity, Darcy trembling while he stroked her wet hair down her back, his face tucked low against her shoulder.

She didn't speak. She didn't move. She barely breathed.

They soaked each other in.

Finally, as the water began to cool, he ventured out with tentative feelers. "There's a small chance the honeymoon's over," he murmured over the spray.

She pulled slightly back, a tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, loosening it. "A small chance, huh?" Her voice was a tangle.

He nodded, reaching around her to shut off the tap. "Infinitesimal."

She shrugged, looking down at her hands. "Well, damn."

He chuckled, pulling the towel he'd grabbed earlier off the shower rings and wrapping it around her, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

She flinched, then frowned. "Sorry."

He secured the towel around her, then one around his waist, and lifted her into his arms. "Don't apologize, dollface." He carried her back to the bed and set her down on the edge, crouching in front of her. "You want me to stay or you want me to keep my hands to myself right now?"

The frown deepened. "Don't go." She swallowed thickly. "I'm…confident enough in my independence to know when I want…when I _need_ you close."

He winked, tugging at the towel and pulling it loose, and she let him dry her off. She even gave him a little laugh when he ruffled it through her tangled hair.

"I'm gonna say 'sorry' anyway," she muttered.

"You're breaking the rules, but I guess I have no choice but to allow it," he said, sighing resignedly. "Why, specifically?"

She swallowed again. "The only time anyone came that close was to…stick me with something," she said, her voice small, though she tried for casual and smooth. "There was that one time Nat came over…but then she slapped me."

He narrowed his eyes.

"She was playing along," she added.

He nodded. Good, that sounded more like it.

She peered at him. "You're not gonna…ask me…about it?"

He tugged the towel out from beneath her and folded it up, calm and methodical. "No."

Her brow quirked. "Why not?"

He sighed and folded the towel over his metal arm, bent over her and ran his fingers through her hair. "Because if you're asking me that question, then you're not ready to talk about it. Take it from someone who knows." He pressed another kiss to her head and crossed back into the bathroom.

When he emerged, dressed in a Hawaii t-shirt and a pair of board shorts, it was to find her asleep again, this time tucked into the covers and clutching the pillow to herself, her hair a curtain behind her.

((()))

"Say your goodbyes," Bucky said as he shut the passenger door.

Darcy leaned out the Jaguar's window and smirked, her tired face turned up toward the sun. "Should I be sad we're leaving this hellhole?"

He snorted as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Hell no." He squeezed her thigh. "Drink your coffee."

She smiled tiredly. "Yes, sir." She plucked her Starbucks cup from the holder and drank.

Bucky started the car and shifted the purring engine into gear.

Darcy settled back in her seat and let the wind whip her—now tamed—hair around her face, enjoying the heat of her Dolce Latte sliding down her throat. Numerous questions zoomed around in her head, but as those questions only led to other questions that she wasn't sure she wanted to stare in the face just yet, she packed them up in a box in her head, labeled it 'Later' with a permanent marker, capped it, and set it all aside, the flaps folded neatly shut.

"Alright?" he asked sometime later, his voice low. "You need Advil, there's some that I stashed in the glove compartment."

She sighed. "Nah. I'm okay."

This pronouncement, she knew, wasn't really a truth that either of them believed, but as it was widely accepted as nothing more than a figure of speech, this idea wasn't broached either.

His hand settled around her thigh again and stayed there as he drove one-handed, his metal fingers steadying the wheel as his warm human ones wrapped around her leg. "Love you," he murmured.

She nearly missed it over the wind, but turned to give him the biggest smile she could muster—which wasn't much, really—and lay her head on his shoulder. "I know."

They drove for what felt like forever. The Jaguar whipped down the highways and they barely saw any traffic at all, which Darcy thought was weird. She tried to recall the amount of traffic in the old syndications of _Magnum PI_ she'd grown up watching with her grandmother, but couldn't recall that much hillside traffic there either.

He asked her, once, if she wanted lunch, but as her appetite was still playing tricks on her, she declined. He didn't stop either, his mouth shut in a tight line.

The Jaguar was, however, a bit of a gas guzzler and it didn't take long for her to be able to tell that he wanted to ditch it, but didn't. Both times they stopped, he got exactly twenty worth, went in, paid with cash, and came back out, locking all the doors behind him. It took her longer—shamefully long, really—to realize that he wasn't using his Stark card because transactions on plastic were traceable.

She wondered if Tony was beside himself, looking for them.

Clearly, Bucky didn't have his phone.

She looked down at herself.

Hawaiian t-shirt and shorts—in her size. She wasn't sure how on earth he'd guessed her waistline so perfectly, but then, the Winter Soldier had skills even she couldn't quantify, so should she really be surprised? So, obviously he'd gone out while she was comatose—

She ducked away from that thought, too, before it could bloom into memories of her time with Aldrich Killian. She couldn't look too hard at any of that yet.

Finally, they stopped—late—at another little motel. This was one much cleaner than the last and was on the coast. Bucky's driving had been clean, but light-speed all day, so safe to assume they'd crossed perhaps a narrow part of the Big Island. He'd be looking, now, to get them back to the Mainland.

He locked her in the room and went out again.

She stared vacantly at the TV, watching an ancient rerun of Oprah and wondering what the hell had become of her life, until he came back with three bags.

"What's all that?"

He set it down, his broad shoulders tight. "Food. It's been too long, especially for you. You're going to eat, got it?" His voice was soft, but it was clear she wouldn't be allowed to argue.

Smirking at his Mother Bear attitude again, she slid off the bed. "Relax. I'm hungry."

They ate their sandwiches in silence and Darcy wished he'd brought soda instead of bottled water.

As she watched him pick at his chips, his brows drawn in worry, a thought occurred to her. "Hey. I haven't had any episodes."

He visibly flinched, then set his chips aside. "I know."

She blinked. "So…what do you think that means?"

He sighed. "Frankly, I don't wanna know."

She chewed on her lower lip as she studied him.

"You can hold your own, though. That was pretty clear."

"What do you mean?"

He finally raised his gaze and looked her in the eye. "When I finally breached the house again, I found you scuffling with Killian. You looked like…" He hesitated, his eyes tightening.

"Like what?" she prompted.

He sighed again, heavily. "Like a _Valkyrie_ , or an _Amazon_. You were toe-to-toe." His tone faded. "You looked like a superhuman."

She stared at him, into his face, the tightness there loosening until he just looked sad. "And?"

He slumped against the headboard of the bed. "And I…I didn't want that for you."

Not knowing what to say to this confession, she crawled into his lap.

He wrapped his arms around her. "I'm here when you're ready," he murmured against her hair.

They fell asleep like that, tucked against each other.

((()))

"Darcy."

She flinched, grappling for freedom, tugging at her restraints and gasping as they tightened around her entire body.

" _Darcy_!"

She cried out, shoving against them, pounding with her fists.

" _DARCY_!"

Her eyes flew open and she was met with another set staring back at her, a deep, clear blue.

She was breathless, her throat dry. "Jamie?"

He didn't blink. "It's alright. Just a nightmare."

She huffed out a breath and looked around. Their tiny motel room was still dark, the still-made bed ruffled beneath them, and the digital clock on the side table read 2:03 AM.

She swallowed, shrugging against Bucky's secure grip around her upper arms, his palms comfortingly warm—even the metal one. "Nightmare. Right." She nodded and his grip loosened. "Thanks."

He didn't speak, and he didn't try to get her to talk, which she was grateful for, her mind swimming with the image of Aldrich Killian and his vicious smile. He just sat there, quietly stroking her back in the darkness, the slow, even sound of his breathing working to lull her into a state of calm.

"Did you sleep at all?" she finally asked, her voice sounding much too loud in the early morning.

He nodded. "A few hours."

"Did I wake you?"

He shook his head. "No. I was up."

She nodded, looking down at her hands in her lap, and swallowed. "I'm a mess, hey?"

He reached up to comb her hair off her forehead, his eyes soft in the dark, even clearer than it had been before her dosing. "To be expected. You're doing well, actually. But you've had plenty of experience with harrowing situations, so that's paid off now."

She breathed out a laugh. "Yeah, plenty of experience running for my life. You know, dodging dark elves, freeing small mammals from the path of rampaging Destroyers, stuff like that. Just run of the mill, you know."

He smiled.

"You thought it all was a hallucination. Didn't you?"

A confused frown passed over his face.

"Before. When I kept waking up during the night and seeing someone on the property, at the beach house. You thought I was hallucinating."

Now guilt flashed there in his eyes and he pulled back a little. "I'm sorry." And his voice was hoarse.

"How could you know it was real?" she asked. "I mean, no one would stop and think, 'Gee, Aldrich Killian must be casing the joint'."

But he was already off and running, his old guilt resurfacing hard—not that she ever felt like she could blame him. How he managed to walk around every day in the knowledge of what he'd been forced to do for sixty years was still beyond her. "We've been _waiting_ for someone to make a move. I should've been more _steadfast_ , I should've _trusted_ you—"

But she cut him off before he could gain any head of steam. "Bruce said that you…had night terrors. In the beginning. He assumed you hadn't said anything because…"

His eyes were tight. "…I didn't want to scare you. I didn't want you to worry about anything you didn't have to worry about, anything that might not even come to pass."

She knew there was more. "But…"

He shrugged. "I never saw anyone. I was _watching_ , and I _never saw anyone_. I don't know how he must've done it. I don't know…how he's done _anything_ he's done…" He looked away, wincing as though a sharp pain had spiked in his head.

She studied him, slightly suspicious. She'd learned what she hoped were most of his tics over the past year and he was displaying a kept secret. "What do you mean?"

But he only took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. What matters is—"

" _Don't_." She stopped him, staring him down in the dark. "Don't. _Please_. _Don't_ do that to yourself again. I _hate_ it." If he didn't want to tell her now whatever was ailing him—on top of _everything_ else—she'd never been one to push him. After all, how could she, when he gave her all the space she needed?

His jaw was tight and he was quiet for a long time. Finally, he nodded.

She smoothed a hand down his chest. "It's just a new enemy to fight. And…whatever they did to me."

He flinched again, hard.

She cocked her head. "You know what they did to me. Don't you?"

He swallowed thickly. "No. But…"

She blinked. "But…?"

Another sigh. "It looks like they… _fixed_ you. No way of knowing yet, and there's no way I'm testing it until we're clear of them. But…"

She pursed her lips, watching him grapple with the words. She had a feeling they were harder for him to say than they were for her to hear. She usually got that sensation with him. "You don't think we're clear of them?"

His arms went around her again and he pulled her back into his lap, forcing her to straddle his waist. "Baby, I've been in this business for a long time. If there's one thing I've learned it's that you're _never_ as clear as you _think_ you are."

She sighed.

"There's always someone _lurking_. Somewhere—usually where you're not looking. They come at you _sideways_."

Sadness trickled through her again at this pronouncement. "That's why you're never comfortable. That's why you never sleep for long."

Looking more tired than he had a very long time, he reached up again to brush her hair back, his long fingers lingering on her scalp. "Only in the Tower. And only with you. Otherwise it's just another old habit that's hard to break."

She snorted, shifting so they were closer together. "And what the hell about little old _me_ makes _you_ feel… _safe_?"

He shrugged, a soft, sardonic smile curving his mouth. "You're a secure place to stash all my secrets. All my worst confessions."

She ran her hands up his chest, his t-shirt soft against her palms. "Not all of them," she murmured. "Not yet."

He didn't deny it. But when she leaned forward to kiss him, he did hold her back. "We should try and get back to sleep."

She raised a brow at him at this brush off.

He kissed her chastely on the cheek, but didn't elaborate on his gentle refusal. "Sleep."

And she did.


	11. Chapter 11: Break On Me

**Chapter 11** **: Break On Me**

 **Summary:** **In which Tony attempts not to kill Steve, Steve attempts to stay out of Tony's wrath, Natasha attempts clever things in a car, and Darcy has a surprising revelation.**

 **Notes:** **Oh, my God, you guys-I'm sorry this took so long!** **Ugh! I really didn't mean for this to get away on me. I've been trying to write, and some days it's great and others, I just sit and stare at it. I'm still not quite sure where I'm going with this, what the endgame is going to be. If anyone has any requests of ideas, I'd seriously love to hear them!** **Also, are you still out there?! I know I took a while here, and I'm afraid I've lost a lot of people. I apologize whole-heartedly, too, for being so forgetful about those comments. I do see each and every one, including kudos, and I'm sorry it takes me so long to reply to them. I love you all-and I thank you so much for reading and (hopefully) enjoying, but my brain is like Swiss cheese, no lie.** **So please, please, let me know how this is for you guys, and I'll seriously try and keep up this time. I love you all and I'm so thankful that someone out there is reading my lame crap.** **This one's going to be a bit short, as I'm catching up to my writing pace. Again, throw those ideas at me! So I shaved a bit off this, am still fishing around in my head, and kept the angst to a low-level simmer. Tony's less than happy about all this, Steve is feeling epically guilty, Natasha's just annoyed, and Bucky and Darcy are just trying to keep their heads above water.** **I hope you enjoy! Let me know. Chapter Title taken from the Keith Urban song of the same name. LOVE Keith Urban! I thought-given the last scene here-that this one would be the most appropriate to use for a title. It'll make sense when you get there.** **Love y'all!** **Sarah**

He'd been right.

As usual.

Damn him.

Nightmares plagued her for the next few days and nights while they laid low in that little motel room. She slept in fits and starts, often passing out early on the bed in front of the television and waking in the night, restless and disturbed. The shadows that stretched the room through the slats in the blinds seemed to move across the floor, corner to corner, and it always seemed to happen when Jamie was asleep beside her, finally succumbing to numb unconsciousness. She had to talk herself down twice in her own head that, no, of course Aldrich Killian wasn't stalking her through their ugly motel room, lurking in dark corners and watching her sleep.

The shadows under his eyes deepened.

Her guilt increased.

And so did her vague sense of terror.

Jamie seemed dreadfully sure that they were being tailed. And she'd yet to encounter anything he was sure about failing to come to pass. If anyone had iron-clad experience, it was him. He even outstripped Natasha, and Darcy knew Natasha would let him steer the ship in any regard.

So why hadn't they made a move yet? It felt like they were just sitting ducks.

He went out every afternoon, but wouldn't tell her what he was doing. She figured it was likely a combination of things. Feeling out the area. Checking their trail. Maybe leaving false ones. Hunting down a low-key way they could get back to the Mainland. They didn't really have a choice beyond a personal charter and she knew he'd never trust an independent pilot.

Besides, he probably knew how to fly, anyway.

She was proven right not two days later, when he packed everything up and gently woke her. He helped her dress in the dark, then skirted her out under the cover of pre-dawn, back to the Jag, leaving the room unlocked behind them.

He didn't reply to most of her questions, and she didn't ask many. He pulled in at a small airfield, told her to stay put, and locked her in the car again.

She watched as he went over to the office door, set into the factory, hangar façade of the building, and knocked, once, twice, three times, and waited. The door opened. A short man with what was obviously a military bearing exchanged a few words with a very stiff Bucky, cash was exchanged, and he disappeared back inside, shutting the door again behind him.

Bucky returned, tossed the backpack full of their things over his shoulder and retrieved her from the front seat. "Say goodbye to the F-Type."

She sighed, running a hand over the dash. "Such a pretty car."

He smiled tiredly. "Gas-guzzler, but she's quick. Couldn't drive her long. This will have to do." He gestured. "We gotta go, dollface."

She hauled herself out of the car and he shut the door, leaving it unlocked with the key under the passenger mat.

"He's not piloting us, is he?"

"No. I am."

"Of course you can fly." She yawned and righted herself as she knocked against his shoulder. "And you trust that guy?"

He slid his arm around her waist, steadying her. "Not on my life, but he's a former Marine. That gets him points. It's his plane. He's got a buddy that can fly it back over for him out of California. Private airfield, more points. And he took cash, and didn't ask questions. Gotta be good enough."

He loaded her into a small passenger plane, a little two-seater, and she watched in the mirror as he fired everything up and checked the equipment.

"All gassed up," he muttered as she climbed in beside her. "Strap in, babe."

She did, frowning as the motor started up, deafeningly loud. "Have you ever done this as…you know, _Bucky Barnes_?" she had to shout.

He snorted, gesturing to the headset that matched the one he slid on. "No, actually."

She put hers on, too. " _No_?!"

He smiled as he flicked switches and the bay door rolled up behind them, his voice clear, now, in the ear phones. "Relax. It's all up here." He tapped his temple. "We're fine. Besides—it's all we've got. I don't intend to drive around in circles on this island with a tail on my ass while we wait for Tony Stark to come find us. Ain't my style."

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twisted into a smirk of its own accord as they turned and taxied out. "Ain't your style."

They rose into the rising sun, the cockpit blazing with new light and she had to squint while she dug her sunglasses out of the backpack. Not that she needed them. She passed out again as they reached the ocean.

((()))

With a frustrated growl, Tony tossed down the chunk of side table he'd been studying and turned to glare at the torn apart living room of his beach house.

The place was a mess.

The fridge was still stocked.

The front door was off one hinge, the screen's handle—if he wasn't mistaken—melted.

Darcy's striped Roxy sweater was still hanging on the hook off the front entrance. Bucky's black baseball cap was on the peg next to it.

"They got out of here in a hurry," Steve called from the back hall.

"I went to MIT, Rogers. Tell me something I don't know." He reached up to undo the top button on his John Varvatos and continued to take inventory.

The cream couch was flipped on its front. The dining room chairs were strewn about, two of them missing legs, their limbs adding to the mess. One of the chairs was toppled over a patch of brownish stain on the white carpet, and his stomach turned over at what he suspected to be dried blood. He didn't approach; he didn't think he wanted to know.

The sliding door was wide open to the deck.

The side tables were overturned.

The round kitchenette that he'd insisted on even though Pepper accused it of being 'too pedestrian' had clearly been slid roughly across the floor, half on the tiling, half off, a large, offensive skid mark making a tattoo across the surface.

Definitely in a hurry.

"Their bags are still in the back of the closet, and the drawers are still full," Steve reported as he came back into the main room. "So they didn't pack—at all. Toiletries still in the bath cabinet, nothing's disturbed. Clean job, on the surface."

Tony glanced again at the brown patch on the carpet. "Sure. On the _surface_." He glared up at Steve. "Go get Buck's bag, eh? Bring it out."

Steve frowned, eyeing him confusedly, a little crease forming between his eyebrows, but he went, surprisingly, without argument. Tony added a point to his tally. Clearly, Rogers was treading lightly. Just as well—Tony was furious with him and had made it abundantly clear over the last several hours.

"Ah!" Steve had gasped as his head snapped to the side. His neck gave a protesting crack.

Tony had just smiled grimly, clenching his jaw against further anger.

Steve had taken a longer moment to straighten than he'd expected. "I deserved that, I know." He reached up to dab at his bleeding lip, caught by his teeth from the inventor's right hook. He'd licked at the blood, even as the gash shut again.

"You're damn right, Cap."

—"Stark."

Tony jumped, knocked from both the memory and his hazy anger. It had been there, pale red in his vision, for the past 36 hours, as he and Steve worked together to get to the beach house and untangle what had happened. They'd taken a direct route straight from their rendezvous point in Pasadena, regardless of Steve's insisting they lay a more circuitous trail. Tony had replied that, quite frankly, he didn't give a flying fuck if anyone could track them. He had a repulsor blast he could introduce them to.

"Why do you need Buck's bag?" Steve finally asked as he dodged fallen furniture and set it down on the kitchen counter.

The duffle was stiff in Tony's hands—or maybe he was just nervous. "Got a hunch," he mumbled, unzipping it and rooting around.

It was largely empty. He'd left a zip-up hoodie inside, but at first glance, it didn't appear to contain anything else.

Except for the little hidden pocket at the side.

Smiling just a little, Tony unzipped it and slid his hand inside, coming out with Bucky's sleek, black Starkphone, presumably untouched in the entire disaster.

Steve's mouth dropped open. "How did you know that would be in there?"

Tony hit the button on the back, waking it up. "We think alike."

Steve frowned like he was slightly hurt. "And how's that?"

Tony shrugged. "Paranoid."

Steve snorted. "Yeah, Buck _can_ be paranoid. What's your excuse?"

Tony glared up at him. " _Dying in a wormhole_. Is that good enough?"

Steve flinched, then sighed, then took a few steps back, surveying the rest of the room. "This place is a mess."

Tony tapped the screen, scrolling around. "That's one way of putting it."

Steve hovered for a moment, watching the inventor scroll through the smartphone, before drifting off toward the garage.

Tony hunted down the timestamps in the phone, confirming it had been a number of days since there'd been any activity on it. The last entry had been Bucky's call in, when he'd desperately asked Bruce for suggestions. Recalling the brokenness in Bucky voice—arguable the strongest person he'd yet met—still haunted him a little. The dichotomy of that strength versus any vulnerability bothered him. Or, rather, what bothered him was the obvious fact that Bucky was just incredibly skilled at hiding it from everyone else.

His bond with Darcy seemed more and more intricate as things progressed.

Tony wondered how everyone else in the Tower could possibly miss it.

He sighed. The only bright spot was, of course, that Killian hadn't gotten his paws on the phone. It was just lucky that Bucky knew to keep it hidden when it wasn't on him. The dark spot was the fact that Bucky's tracker had been removed, therefore making the GPS on the phone useless. Not, of course, that Tony could really argue with the tracker's removal to begin with. But he pushed the memory of a suffering Darcy to the back of his mind—again.

He slid the phone into his back pocket and went through the room, taking a detailed inventory. He knew Pep would want to get it cleaned up quick-as-you-can, furniture replaced. She'd take advantage of all her recent design ideas that she hadn't been able to stretch her muscles on in the designing of the Tower.

Finally, bracing himself, he approached the one toppled chair and set it upright, trying to ignore his shaking hands.

There was a small circle of what had to be dried blood on the carpet, enough to leave a small stain, but not enough to seem a congealed puddle.

Furthermore, the chair still bore remnants of someone's captivity in it—cuffs of some high-tech material that he'd have grim fun studying back in his lab at some point still dangling from the arms. He bent over to look. Black, some sort of heavy nylon derivative?

"Hm."

They were wound small, so definitely Darcy's little wrists.

But they'd been _torn_ loose and free.

So…

He scowled at the implication and looked around. Nothing else to tell just what had happened to her while she was incapacitated. Nothing. Things had been hurriedly cleaned.

The back rooms were bare, as well, effectively scrubbed, nothing to give away that anything was amiss aside from the slightly tossed contents of the drawers and cabinets. Even that stuff was mostly left alone.

"What the fuck, Killian?" Tony murmured aloud, worry gnawing at his gut.

" _Stark_!"

That worry spiking, he followed Steve's call of mild alarm down the hall to the connected garage and paused in the doorway. " _What_?"

Steve hid his flinch at least partially, but ignored the surly tone, gesturing out the busted window of the garage. "We got a body."

Tony sneered. "There are about a dozen lying around, Rogers. What's different about this one?"

Steve's face was grim. "This one isn't Bucky's work."

In other words, harsh marks on the body to signal mode of death. When the Winter Soldier killed you, it was just a single striking blow, nine times out of ten, merely a snapped, lolling neck.

Tony stepped down into the room and crossed to him to peer out the window and down to the rocky ground a story-and-a-half below.

"It's Natasha's," Steve said, voice low.

"It's a woman." And her head had been smashed in by the solid lava. "Definitely not Buck. Kid's got a code."

"What is going on?" Steve asked aloud for both of them, his tone exasperated.

Tony scowled, studying the woman's blond, blood-matted ponytail. "I dunno. Let's go down there and maybe she can tell us."

((()))

Darcy dreamed. And it wasn't just any dream. It was a very fond memory.

She woke in Bucky's Tower apartment to the deep shadows of very early morning. Refusing to open her eyes yet and spoil the warm glow, she frowned when she realized the bed was cool.

Blinking sleepily, she looked around. The sky scrapers outside were lighting everything in fluorescent colors, bright reds and blues, brightening the night past the expensive drapes.

But she was alone in the bed.

She sat up, wrapping the bed sheet around her torso as a chill hit her. "Bucky?" she called.

No answer.

Frowning in concern, she tugged the sheet off with her and traversed the suite, finding it empty until she finally turned and took in the stretching balcony, long enough to have doors in both the bedroom and living area. Sighing with a certain amount of sad resignation, she went back to the bedroom, slid the door open, and went out into the warm summery night.

New York was all a-bustle below, the City That Never Sleeps. But up here, it was just the distant sounds of horns and yelling, the wind and the buzzing glow of neon.

He was leaning on the railing, looking out over the city, his chest bare and his black lounge pants low on his hips, the scars on his back creating a patchwork of tattoos. His left arm glowed blue from the building nearby.

She paused, watching him as his hair blew gently in the breeze. "If I'd known you woulda' ditched me our first night together, I'da held onto you little tighter, Soldier Boy," she said, softly, knowing he'd be able to hear her at five yards no matter her volume.

The tic of his right bicep was the only indication that he heard her.

Sighing again, she tightened the bed sheet and went out to him, approaching the railing as she glanced around at the surrounding windows for stargazers. She was in only a sheet, after all…

His eyes were closed, his hands braced on the concrete barrier. He didn't look at her; not that he needed to.

She slid her hand around his arm and latched her hip against the cold stone.

And then he spoke, surprisingly, his voice low. "Well. I'm a little out of practice."

She laughed softly, studying him, his eyes still closed. "Yeah, well, if that's _outta practice_ for you, I'd hate to think what you're like _with_ practice. Haven't had sex like that in… _ever_."

A teeny, tiny tic at the corner of his mouth, and he finally eyed her out of the corner of his eye. "Sex like what?"

She sighed, looking out at the skyline, so lit up it drowned out all the actual stars. Shame. "Sex that felt like more than sex." She swallowed at what sounded like some sort of heavy confession, and focused her energy on not looking at him. The admission that the night meant more to her than that implied things…things she wasn't sure she could say…things she wasn't sure she had the strength to say, the courage…not yet. And certainly not to him while he was in the state he was in.

But he didn't comment. He just sighed. "Sorry. Couldn't sleep."

She was sure, of course, that this likely had more to do with panic and memory than anything else, but she didn't say that. She just stood there, her hand on his warm human arm, his pulse thrumming against her palm. "After all that, it's a wonder." She laughed.

Surprisingly, he smiled. "I was restless. I didn't want to wake you. You looked…"

"Was I drooling, just a little?" she teased.

But he didn't laugh. "You looked peaceful."

She sighed, edging closer to him and huddling a bit against his warmth. It was summer, but the night wind was cool on her bare skin. "Be more peaceful if you'd come back inside and lie down next to me."

But he didn't seem inclined to move.

"You're not gonna ask me if I'm alright?" he murmured.

She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. "No." She reached up to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes, where the wind had blown it. "I know better than to ask if you're alright. If you're out here in the middle of the night, I don't need to ask."

He gazed out again, over the city lights. "It's like white noise. Helps me think."

She edged closer still. "I think maybe Bucky Barnes has done enough thinking for the night, don't you?"

He looked down at her again, his face deceptively passive.

"Besides—he can start all over again tomorrow, right? It's a whole new day."

His arm came up around her waist.

"That leaves him a few hours of merciful peace, wouldn't you say? Don't you think he's earned it?"

He frowned, just a little. "I don't think he's earned much of _anything_ , really."

That stung to hear. But she swallowed and treated it like everything else he said: with acceptance and gentle steering in the other direction. "Well, he _certainly_ earned the last few hours with his girlfriend, catching up on that _practice_ he mentioned." She let a loose giggle escape.

A small smile, there, just at the edge of his full lips.

Scenting a small slice of victory, she leaned in closer, smiling. "And he's certainly earned a little _more_ , if he thinks he needs a refresher course." She looped her hand around his and tugged, letting the sheet dip just a smidge, showing him a tantalizing expanse of her naked back. "Not that he does, if we're being honest."

"And you're offering? This _course_ , that is?" Beautiful playfulness in his voice.

She gave him a coquettish look over her shoulder. "Mm-hmm…the teacher only has one requirement."

An eyebrow went up at her fanciful tone. "And what's that, dollface?"

"No brooding, whatsoever. Is that clear, Private?"

He smirked, following slowly after her. "I was never a Private, Darce. I was—"

"Shut up, Sergeant, and get in here." She tugged him heartily forward and he finally laughed, soft, but bright in the dark, as she slid the door open again.

"Darce…?"

She shifted, the dream dissipating, slipping through her fingers like fog.

"Darce…"

She frowned, sunlight cutting through her eyelids, waking her up. "Mm…"

" _Solnishka_ …wake up."

She stretched. "Five more minutes…"

A gentle laugh, and a hand, fingers over her pulse. "We gotta go, dollface," Bucky murmured in her ear.

Finally, with a sigh, she came to full alertness and blinked against the bright, cheerful light. The ear piece was digging into her temple and she was curled on the passenger seat of the private plane. She jerked upright in surprise. "Whoa." Full wakefulness hit her like a smack to the face and her head spun for a second. "We're here already?"

Bucky was smiling bemusedly at her, his eyes soft. "Yeah. Wasn't long. Just a few hours."

"I slept that whole time?!"

His flinch was painfully obvious, but his tone was forcibly light. "Yeah. Like I said, it wasn't long. It's just after lunch."

"And I didn't even feel us land…" She looked around at the medium field they'd landed in.

He gently extricated her earpiece from her hair and pulled it off her ear. "Yeah, you were out pretty good. Feel okay?"

She blinked a few times, trying to center herself back in the present. "Yeah. Was having a dream."

Tightness around his eyes. "About?"

She waved a hand, tugging on her belt straps. "No, it was good. It was…it was a memory. You were there." She attempted a comforting smile, growing tired of his worried looks, but she yawned instead, curling in on herself again. "God, I'm sorry. I've been like a cat the past few days. I keep sleeping. Is that normal?"

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I slept a lot, after, yeah. Docs kept me under observation for a while when we got back to base. And besides…what you've been through…you're body's going to process it any way it can. You've just gotta let it do its thing. Okay?"

She sighed. "Where are we?"

"Orange County. Private airfield."

She sighed, pulling her fingers through her hair. "Oh, right. The…the shady friend. We just leaving the keys under the seat?"

He smiled. "Yeah, actually. Ready to go?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

He dropped down out of the pilot's seat and came around to retrieve her, her short legs dangling. He smiled, scooping her into his arms and down, safely to the ground. She laughed as she landed with a soft bump, and he pressed a little kiss to the space behind her ear, making her giggle. "C'mon."

"What's first?"

"We're stealing a car."

She sighed, but followed after him. "Of course we are. What could our honeymoon have been, other than this?"

((()))

" _Damn_ it," Natasha muttered under her breath, shifting gear and changing lanes. Another tail. She couldn't seem to shake these bastards.

Well. At least the plan worked. The red Toyota Tundra was following her, rather than Buck and Darcy. At least, with her, they were just a minor annoyance. She had to hope they didn't have a shadow, themselves. Though, knowing Buck, he'd have found a much cleverer way than she to shake it off. They were probably back on the Mainland by now. Or, at least she hoped.

The truck had been on her all morning, since she'd left her hole-in-the-wall shack of a motel room, which had to mean they'd been watching her nearby. Of course, she'd known that going in, but sleeping with a Beretta under your pillow tended to help sleep find you quicker when you were on the run, and while she hadn't really expected them to make a move, she was surprised that they were being so consistently dogged.

If Killian wanted her, he'd have made a move by now.

When she'd gotten back from the garage after killing Erwin, she'd found Darcy face-to-face with him, having broken free of her secures, her eyes full of murderous rage.

She'd have gladly helped, had the rest of Aldrich's security team not descended on the house, and she'd wasted most of her time subduing them, a few glimpses of Bucky doing the same making her gasp in relief a few moments later.

The only thing she'd had time for after that was getting them all away in the cars, having no choice but to leave the bastard where he lay, unconscious, on the living room floor. They didn't have time to truss him up like a turkey and throw him in the backseat. They had to go and go right then, or get mowed down by automatic gunfire.

Snarling under her breath, she shifted gear again and took the exit without signaling, sliding deftly through two narrowly spaced cars, ignoring the honks of protest she received for her troubles. "Hey, I thought that was a smooth move," she muttered under her breath, watching in the rearview mirror as the Tundra missed the off ramp and was swept into the flow of traffic headed toward Kailua.

"Hah." She took the stop sign and headed right, going in the opposite direction. "That should hold you for a bit."

((()))

"So how do you hotwire a car, anyway?"

Bucky paused. "You're in my light, babe."

"Sorry." She jerked her head back against the headrest of the MKZ and the leather was supple beneath her head, warm and pliable in the heat of the sun. "You shouldn't need much," she teased.

He smirked. "Doesn't mean I don't enjoy it when I'm doing something that requires concentration."

"I always thought you just popped the console, ripped at the wires and stuck a few together and you were done. That's how they do it in the movies."

He raised one wry eyebrow. "Yeah, and the movies don't show you the alarm going off, or the police being called, or the car misfiring, either."

She frowned. "Aw. That's less fun."

He snorted. "Yeah, and you know what else is less fun than it looks in the movies? _Getting shot_. Keep your head _down_ , _moya solnishka_."

She sighed, sliding down further in the seat until her forehead was even with the window ledge. "Things are worse than I thought if you're speaking in Russian."

He was silent. She cut a glance back at him. He looked broody too. _Sad face_.

"What's it mean, anyway? You calling me your _little pet bird_ , or something?"

Another small smile broke through his intense scowl of concentration. "My sunshine."

Her heart squeezed and she was in serious danger of cooing, but before she could, the engine suddenly purred to life beneath her. "Ooh." She peered over to watch as he snapped the console shut again and adjusted the steering column. "That's hot."

He slid into the driver's seat. "Grand Theft Auto is sexy?"

She clicked her seatbelt. "I think of it more as _borrowing_ , really."

He chuckled, securing his seatbelt and adjusting the mirror. "Well, whoever owns this Lincoln isn't likely to use this empty parking lot with his next expensive ride."

She sighed as he slid through the lonely parking spot and settled back in the seat, crossing her ankles on the dash. "Is that why you chose this—because it's expensive? Does that have some significance?"

He shrugged, switching on the blinker and slipping onto the road. "Depends on the situation. You want something that won't draw attention. That means, either, middle of the road, or—in different environments: expensive. Sleek. Not too attention grabbing, but something that says that I'm a rich executive making my boring way home from the office. It's black. That's nondescript in the daylight and capable of being practically invisible at night. It's top of the line enough to give us good zero-to-sixty, but middle line enough to allow for good mileage, thus cutting the number of stops to refuel. And it was all alone in a less-than-nice parking lot. Easy pickings."

"…And the Winter Soldier had plenty of need to steal cars in the last sixty years?"

He made a conscious effort not to look at her. "Well. There were those two times I tried to escape."

She jerked and her feet fell off the dash and back to the floor with a hollow thud. But she was silent. No yelling, no exclamations.

He risked a glance.

She was staring at him, wide-eyed, mouth parted just slightly.

Wincing internally, he broke eye contact again in favor of watching the road.

"Twice?"

He nodded. "Mm-hmm."

She blinked, cold shock sliding through her like winter slush. "And…when were you going to…" She was well aware she was stammering like an idiot.

He sighed, stopping at a red light. "Didn't remember it. Until now," he finally said, shortly.

She blinked again.

"Didn't make it anyway, obviously."

"I…I…" she stuttered, staring ahead, lost.

"St. Petersburg the first time. I was too lost in my own head, too muddled. Second time, though, I made it all the way to Chicago. We were on a mission in Cuba, assassinating an arms dealer. And I remember I just…woke up. Made a run for it while they were all standing over the body."

Just like it always did— _every single time_ —the pain for him started as a little, tiny fissure at the center of her heart and bloomed, like a webbed crack in a windshield, outward, until there was no more room for it all, the entire muscle throbbing helplessly, and she cast about, looking for words.

But there were none. There _never_ were.

And she always thought it felt sort of surprising. Like going up a flight of stairs and reaching the top, and forgetting you were all out of steps, that moment of hollow expectation when you realize you can go no further in your current fashion and your chest bottoms out, your foot slamming hard into the floor—some distance from where you expected it to land. One sick swoop of vertigo as you righted your outlook.

"I…"

"It's okay, dollface. It's new. I don't…really wanna talk about it."

So they were both shut down.

They drove on in silence for a long time, through Costa Mesa, then Long Beach. She made a game in her head of all the expensive supercars they passed, and she'd checked off Lamborghini, Maserati, and Ferrari by the time they crossed into Los Angeles County. "Still missing McLaren," she muttered four hours later.

"Hm?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing."

He chose a clean, but slightly shabby motel on the outskirts of LA, locked her in again, and left. So she sat, with her thoughts as her only company, until he came back an hour later with snacks.

They ate in silence, the TV giving up nothing but grumpy static, Darcy on the bed, Bucky keeping watch at the wide picture window.

After twenty minutes of her staring at the cracked ceiling above the lumpy queen bed, he abruptly got up. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Darcy jumped from her staring contest with the crack and glanced over at him. He was stiff. "Okay."

The door shut.

The curtain swished.

The water started up, the pipes in the walls gurgling behind the headboard.

She sighed. " _So you just got married_ ," she muttered dejectedly. " _Five things long-term couples wish they'd known before the wedding_." She snorted humorlessly. So far this was turning into a poorly written search result article clicked on in the wee hours of the morning, half asleep but determined to make it an all-nighter, a college exam in four hours but no more room in her head to study. She'd clicked on many an article out of sheer boredom and curiosity, though it often never pertained to her.

" _Five: Trust. Fifty-eight percent of those tested indicated that if they did it over again, they'd work on issues of trust, most of which they stated they brought to the relationship from previous long-term commitments._ Ugh. Check." She sat up, glancing out the front window. " _Four: Sex. A whopping seventy-six percent of study participants indicated that they wish they'd waited longer before marrying to determine the difference between sexual satisfaction and emotional connection._ Idiots."

She pulled a hand through her hair, scowling at the tangles. " _Three: Communication. Forty-nine percent of participants admitted to deep-seated problems in the foundation of any relationship: clear, open lines of communication._ It's not usually that hard to open your mouth, people: if I can manage it with a clammed-up former assassin, just think how easy it'll be for you." She slid off the bed and stood there, hands on her hips, staring at the bathroom door, open just a crack. He hadn't put on the light, not that a super soldier was incapable of showering in what other people would consider _the dark_. She unbuttoned her teeny shorts and slid them off, kicking them up onto the end of the bed.

" _Two: Infidelity. Thirty-two percent of study participants admitted to a lack of ability in keeping to a monogamous relationship_. Assholes."

She tugged her t-shirt over her head and let her hair settle on her bare shoulders. " _One: The So-Called-Three-Year-Slump. A whopping eighty-seven percent admitted to feeling bored in their relationship and that they wished for a greater sense of adventure in their life with their spouse_. I've got some spare they can borrow." She shimmied out of her underwear, pushed the door open and stood there a moment, watching his shadow move behind the shower curtain, quick and efficient, as always.

Then she shoved it open and stepped in beside him. The water was blazing hot.

It was a testament to how distracted he was that he actually started a little, but he was immediately on alert, reaching to turn down the temperature. "What's wrong?"

She pulled the curtain shut behind her. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

And she kissed him.

She pressed forward against him, daring him with her mouth and her hands, her palms flat on the broad expanse of his scarred chest—

And with an abrupt shove, he'd pushed her back, his eyes intense and uncertain as he looked at her in the dark.

They faced off under the spray, steam rising around them, totally wasted. Hot water only lasted so long, after all.

She waited for him to speak. She expected him to tell her she was traumatized and that it wasn't the time for sex. She waited for him to tell her she was tired and wasn't thinking straight and that he was equally exhausted and that they should just focus their energy on getting home alive.

But he didn't.

He didn't do any of that.

He surged forward and kissed her instead, his hands coming up to cup her face, pulled her up on her toes to reach him better, his mouth warm and damp from the shower spray.

She tugged her fingers through his dripping hair, pulling him down to her as well, delving into his mouth with her tongue.

He gave a low sound of satisfaction, his hands drifting off her face and down, over her shoulders and back, digging into her hips to pull her closer, grinding her against him.

She might've mewled into his mouth, but she couldn't be sure over the hiss of the water. The only thing she seemed sure of in all the horror of the past week was that she needed him. _Needed_ him— _all_ of him—and right bloody _now_.

And evidently, judging by his lack of protestations, they were in a certain amount of agreement, because all Bucky did was reach blindly back to turn off the spray before hauling her up around his waist and stepping out of the stall, both of them dripping wet all over the carpet.

And then they were wrapped up under the covers, all wet hair and teeth and tongues and mouths desperately seeking, hands clutching and clenching, the soft brush of the motel sheets on bare skin.

He knew what he wanted and she was glad not to stop him, his intention crystal clear and identical to hers, and the next second it was all deep angles and moans and shudders, and she was so fucking sure she was going to shatter if he kept up his bruising pace, and his human hand might crack the headboard, but no one cared, and she cried out in rough-throated satisfaction as his teeth closed around her shoulder.

((()))

The sunset was leaking in through the slats in the blinds over the picture window and creating lines on the dewy skin of his back.

She reached out to trace them, letting her head tip back against the headboard, enjoying the heady rush of calm that always followed really good sex.

He propped his chin on her belly and looked up at her through his bangs, a lazy smile stretching his mouth.

She let out an equally lazy giggle in reply, adjusting her hips where they were half trapped under him. Trapped in a good, comfy way, not the sort of 'my lover won't move' kind of way. Bucky never did that.

His hands slid over the small of her back and up and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her right hip.

"Mm…" she sighed.

For a long time, it was quiet in their little motel room, night seeping in through the blinds, the room growing deeper dark. Soon he was just a shadow laying there, his head on her belly, his arms around her waist, her fingers in his hair. His steady breathing lulled her. He was always so steady. His eyes were shut, but she knew he was awake.

"I think I died," she murmured into the silence.

He shifted, just barely, his breath against her naval huffing in humor. "Mm, I dunno if I'm quite _that_ good…"

He thought she was _joking_ …

Her heart cracked, but she said it anyway, her voice low and detached. "I'm serious."

Now he moved, adjusting to look up her body and into her face.

But she couldn't look at him. She couldn't even stop the one lone tear from escaping her right eye and running across her temple into her hair. "I think I died."

He was silent, his hands tightening stiffly at her back.

"I remember they drugged me. And there was shouting. Then nothing."

A moment passed. Two. Three. He laid his head back down, his stubble pressing a pattern into the soft skin over her belly.

"You probably just…"

"I didn't pass out. This was different. It was just darkness. And cold. And…nothing." Another tear. "There was nothing. And when I…woke up…there was a…a sound, I…" She paused, hearing it in her head. "…a long ringing…like a heart monitor. Flat line." She stared up at that crack in the ceiling, her new vision—newer still—tracing the very grooves in the plaster. "I think I was dead, Jamie," she whispered.

His arms tightened around her, but he didn't ask her why she hadn't said anything earlier. He wasn't the sort of man to ask a question like that. He was, however, the sort of man to ask what most people considered a silly question; the difference, of course, was that he always expected a plain answer, something more than the obvious lies. "Are you alright?"

She didn't move. She _couldn't_ move. She felt paralyzed and numb. What made it worse was the fact that she _knew_ , when it ended, the fallout would be intense, the most intense she'd ever felt, including her ordeal the previous spring. "…No." It wasn't enough. She knew that. But it was all she could manage.

He shifted, pressing his face against her belly, nuzzling her. "What can I do?"

Her heart clenched in her chest and she held her breath, waiting for that downward spiral to start, triggered by the sheer sound of him _begging_ —something she _never_ thought she'd hear. But nothing came. All she felt was the rebound of emotion from him, the overflow of grief that even he couldn't manage to fully contain. "…Nothing."


	12. Chapter 12: Hopeless Wanderer

**Chapter 12** **: Hopeless Wanderer**

 **Summary:** **High speed car chases ensue.**

 **Notes:** **Whew!** **You guys! I've been writing up a storm! I've managed to considerably widen the gap from where I'm posting to where I'm actually writing in terms of the overall plot line! So relieved!** **This one isn't much happier than the last one, but things always get worse before they get better, right? Never fear! This one is full of action and angst, both, a little less talk-y but a lot more boom-crash!** **I'll admit, I struggled with this but a great friend-looking at you, Kat!-helped me puzzle out the remaining few kinks I had that were in the way of me knowing precisely where this was going and how it was getting there. So thanks, lady! You're awesome.** **Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Mumford and Sons. GREAT song, hopelessly appropriate, here. Go give it a listen!** **Anyhoo, we're getting close enough now (don't worry, we're really nowhere near the end of this, hope that's okay...) that I'm starting to jostle ideas around in my head for further stories. I've got a couple Sherlock ideas floating around for my Dog and His Detective Series. I've got a couple Bucky/Darcy oneshots hovering. I think I'd like to go back and revisit some Steve/Natasha, since that's where all this started, and maybe even dip my toe in with Tony and Pepper.** **Anyone have any ideas or thoughts? Any oneshots you'd like to see? Let me know in the comments if you have any that are eating away at you-or to let me know if you loved this or hated it, either way! lol** **Love y'all!** **Sarah** **PS-Did you guys happen to catch that interview with Seb about that motorcycle stunt in Civil War? I'll admit, I should've Googled it long, long ago, but I was busting a gut at my desk today when he mentioned falling off the damn thing a couple times. That poor guy...is hopelessly adorable.**

 **((()))**

They kept moving. In fact, they barely stopped. He drove and drove and no matter how many times she offered to take over, he refused, telling her it helped focus his mind.

She found this statement suspicious in and of itself, but said nothing of it. Who was she to throw stones? She was lost in a mire of confusion and discomfort enough herself. The dreams intensified, deeper and darker than before, but she somehow managed to keep herself from jolting awake and disturbing him. She took to cat napping in the car and reading at night, lying down long enough that Bucky at least thought she was trying until he passed out and she pulled out her book, a copy of the fifth _Harry Potter_ that had mysteriously appeared in her bag.

They didn't speak of her confession again.

Just as well. Darcy didn't even want to _think_ about it. The nightmares were enough to deal with, the sound of Killian's laughter and the endless piercings in her arms, over and over, blackness, an inescapable blackness that squeezed at her and threatened to swallow her whole, a strange sensation not unlike claustrophobia.

He was to the point where he didn't even ask how she was. He just did things without any exchange of words.

In fact, they didn't do much speaking in general as they wound their way around and finally hopped old Route 66.

Not that that seemed to matter, really.

He drove with his left and held one of her hands captive in his right.

He curled close to her while they sat in any number of nearly identical motel rooms, on the bed, flicking television channels and usually landing on old reruns of _Magnum PI_ , or _Remington Steele_ , or _The Love Boat_.

He'd press against her in bed, his hand over her scar, his brow pressed comfortingly against the back of her neck. Darcy pondered how so many found a habit like this obnoxious when, for her, it was a source of warm security, his breathing steady against her shoulder.

She half expected him to start asking her questions. Any reasonable man would, after all. She'd been hopelessly clammed up for long enough that the average husband would want forward movement, would expect a plea for support, something, _anything_.

He knew her, though. He'd learned her like the back of his hand. She wasn't always about words. She processed things rather like he did—in silence—needing nothing more than a hand at her back. He knew she wouldn't want to hash it all out verbally, that confessing in a flood of tears would make it worse and cause her to take two steps back again.

So he let her have her space when he thought she needed it, and wrapped himself around her when her body language told him she was close to falling apart. And he pressed around her so tightly, he slotted all her pieces back together again, at least temporarily, keeping everything from shaking loose.

How he knew, what his signal was, she'd never know.

Never in her life had she met a man so quietly supportive. For claiming he was all in little broken pieces, he sure seemed like a pillar to her. She couldn't ask for anything more than the implication that she could come to him when, _and only when_ , she was ready.

She expected him to back off, but, if anything, their sex life became _more_ active, it seemed, in direct correlation with their circumstances.

She followed him into the shower.

They barely made it in the motel door.

She realized if he trapped her against the foot of the bed, she had an easier time allowing him to reach that extra little spot that made her vision blur.

And all the while, they barely spoke to each other.

She wondered if he was rubbing off on her, his tendency to go quiet—like the Soldier—in times of turmoil and stress.

Finally, during an ancient rerun of _Wheel of Fortune_ a few nights in, she felt it—a wave, a torrential downpour, and she held her breath for a moment, trying to smooth the cramp in her throat, tried to keep the collapse at bay. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.

He sat up, cool and prepared, and pulled her into his lap. "For what?"

She took a deep breath, or she tried; instead she gasped, her voice strained as she curled against his chest, totally surrendering to him. " _I don't even know_."

A gentle laugh that she felt in his chest as well as heard. "Then don't be sorry."

She opened her mouth to say it again, though she wasn't sure what her reasoning would be, but she couldn't speak. She couldn't even breathe.

"Deep breath," he murmured, his hand running soothing circles on her back. "Take a deep breath for me, okay?"

She hiccupped, and lost, spectacularly, tears starting to stream mercilessly down her face. "I-I can't."

She hadn't cried like this in almost a year, the need tightening her throat and suffocating her, everything seizing helplessly.

"It's alright," he murmured. "It's alright."

"No, it's n- _not_."

"But it is what it is, solnishka," he whispered. "And you don't have to be strong all the time."

She gestured, frustrated, toward the TV, where the third contestant spun the wheel yet again, though there were only a few empty squares left on _Before And After_. "And for _God's sake_ , someone tell that idiot its ' _Peppermint Stick Shift'_!"

He smiled. "I got that ten minutes ago." But he turned it down and tossed the remote on the bed.

"Is it ever going to-to end?!" she gasped, pressing her face against his t-shirt.

He sighed, trying to stem his own flow of grief. He'd been unable to stop thinking about her confession three days prior, her suspicion that she'd spent at least a moment or two _dead_. "I don't know, solnishka. I'm afraid you're asking the wrong guy."

"I mean, for _fuck's sake_ , can't they just leave us be?! Is that _so much_ to ask?!"

He bit his lip, tightening his grip on her. "I know, baby. I know."

She fell completely apart in a strange motel room, on a lumpy bed, with _Wheel of Fortune_ on the TV, gasping to keep from sobbing, tears streaming down her face, apologizing over and over as she tucked herself more and more tightly into his lap.

Bucky stopped telling her to quit saying she was sorry. He gave up telling her to breathe. He started murmuring to her in Russian, his arms tight around her in the only form of surrender he knew.

He wasn't certain just how his heart could break, only to break again, and again, over and over, and still remain whole, but it seemed somehow possible.

When she finally slowed, then sniffled, and passed out, he sat there, unable to move, for a long time, watching her sleep, all the _what-ifs_ driving him in circles in his mind.

 _What if he'd acquiesced to her teasing that morning and not gone out for a swim._

 _What if they'd rejected Tony's offer and gone to the Hamptons anyway._

 _What if he'd looked a third and fourth time to make sure that the person she'd claimed to see again and again on the property was or wasn't there._

 _What if they'd just locked themselves in the house and had done with it, found some other, more creative means of entertainment._

After all, they hadn't reached that plateau yet, the one that couples talked about, where the sex became every-day and vanilla, the novelty wore off, and the patina of newness faded to boring day-to-day life.

Part of him was terrified that they could ever reach a place where they're only concession was a casual peck goodnight and turning around to sleep with their backs to each other, the space between them on the bed icy cold.

He didn't know what to do.

Well. He _did_ know what to do.

They were at least in the clear enough for a burner phone.

He'd go out and nab one tomorrow, try and get in contact with Tony.

Ditch the car for a different one. It had been three days in this one and they'd cross state lines soon. It was time for another model.

Beyond that…he _didn't know what to do_.

He supposed he could do nothing more than keep an eye on Darcy's health and hand her over to Bruce as soon as they got back. Waiting for her to break had only been a matter of time, and hopefully she'd gone through the harshest of it now, at least until they got home.

He didn't want to know what they'd done to her. It was strange. He'd grown so used to her episodes that her lack of them now made him horribly nervous. What had they done to her and why was she suddenly perfectly fine? What was coming? What was looming?

 _He could feel it_.

The shadow bore down on them faster and faster, and no matter how far they got…

Sighing, he settled her gently on the bed, covered her and went to shut the drapes and turn the volume down on the episode of _Jeopardy_ that was on. He pulled off his jeans and crawled in beside her in his t-shirt and boxer-briefs.

She murmured in her sleep and settled her face against his metal shoulder.

He answered the entire section on _German names of the Second World War_ and fell asleep while they were battling their way through _Final Jeopardy_ , the stupid theme song the last thing he heard.

But the answer was totally ' _The White Star Line'_.

((()))

"Tasha?" Steve answered in the second ring, his voice sharp with worry.

" _Steve_ ," Natasha sighed as the satellite connected her to her husband.

"You okay? Where are you?" He was coming through loud and clear and she could tell he was less than happy with things at the current moment.

She let her eyes slide shut and bit her lip against the sting of tears. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

A deep sigh blew in her ear as Steve forgot to move the phone away. "Thank _God_."

Her throat was cramping and she clenched her jaw shut. The Black Widow did _not_ cry, damn it. "I'm _fine_." Her voice wobbled. She didn't cry, she didn't cry, _damn it, damn it, damn it._

"Where are you?"

"I just touched down at LAX," she murmured. "I'm okay."

There was a long pause.

"Did Tony punch you?" she finally asked.

"…Maybe."

The damp laugh felt good in her chest, effervescent, making a nice contrast to the dreary dread she'd been mired in. Standing in line at the check-out counter, it had threatened to drown her and she'd ditched her resolve to call him from the rental car and pulled out her Starkphone. To hell with being tracked by Killian's men. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of them since she'd slipped their tail on the highway and her only plan now was to track down Bucky and Darcy.

It was just lucky that the rental place took cash. She took her information from the airline assistant and hiked her backpack higher up her shoulder, edging between two gossiping women in the complaints line.

He filled her in while she waited for a car, and she apologized to the girl with the paperwork for being that person on the phone while being served.

Tony had punched him, after all, yes, and it had been one hell of a punch.

But Steve wasn't mad; in fact, he still felt guilty and awful about the whole thing.

Tony was beside himself, but was largely quiet and in his own head, and his thoughts were clearly spinning and spinning as the inventor worked out the problem. Once in a while, he'd open his mouth to reply to a comment with snark and a sharp scolding, but Steve tried to take it in stride.

She filled him in on the details of that morning, and their escape, and the three days since that she'd spent leading Aldrich's team on a merry chase around The Big Island, finally ending with dropping her tail and screaming into the airport, grasping desperately at any flight straight to LAX that had an opening.

Finally, she slammed the door on the Toyota Camry and stuck the key in the ignition. "Steve…" she said, trying to interrupt him, the dam on her emotions starting to crumble, now that she was in the car and safe from prying eyes. If the Black Widow had to crack and disintegrate, she could only do it on safe ground.

"…and Tony is making this about _twice_ as difficult as he otherwise could, but it feels like that's _my_ fault so…"

" _Steve_ …"

"…if you have any ideas, I mean, we can start there, and maybe we can meet up…" he was still talking.

She tried to force a deep breath, but that only hastened the flood that was rushing that dam, pressing at the concrete barriers of her mind, the tight, death-grip she kept on that Widow persona she'd built up around her all those years ago, when a persona for all the things she'd done had been her only way to cope. She still had trouble letting it go. Only Steve had ever succeeded at getting through it. " _Steve_ …"

He finally stopped, the wobble in her voice a dead giveaway. "…Sorry."

"I just really needed to hear your voice," she gasped.

He was silent.

"I thought I was done watching people be tortured. But I was right back there again. I was back with…with _them_. And it was _Darcy_ …" A tear slipped down her cheek.

"I'm sorry, Tasha…" Steve whispered.

"I _really_ needed to hear your voice," she said again, her throat cramping so hard it hurt to swallow.

"I'm here. I'm right here. I'm right here with you."

The warmth in his voice eased the ache a little, but it felt like a superficial balm when what she really wanted was for him to completely coat her and form a cocoon within which she could hide away.

He'd stripped her armor the moment he'd admitted that he loved her, just over a year ago.

At first, she'd resented that.

But then she'd realized the obvious.

 _He'd_ become her armor.

She shivered, though the car was sweltering from being parked in the beating sun of the lot for who knew how long. "I don't know where they are. But I've got a car. I'll be on their trail."

Steve's voice was low and soothing. "How? You know Buck—they're in the wind."

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. "If you know him well enough, and if you've been doing what he has for a fraction of the time, though, you can take a random stab in the dark and maybe come up with something to work with."

He sighed. "I guess. Tash…just…meet up with us. We'll do this together," he pleaded.

She shut her eyes against the temptation. "I have to see this through, Rogers."

He was quiet for a moment, but she knew he was thinking through the determination at the back of her tone. "…Killian isn't...The Red Room, sweetheart. And if he's perfected the serum the way you think he has, I…I don't…"

"I'll be fine. I'll be careful. You know I will."

He was quiet.

"It's been days. Buck's led them in circles—if they were ever on their trail at all, rather than mine—and he's likely already gotten them back to the Mainland. That means they hopped the most direct route, with as many opportunities to lose a tail as possible. He's in a dark, nondescript car with good gas mileage, he's using cash, and he's lying low. That should fool the nasties, and he knows that, but it doesn't fool _me_ , Rogers. That only eliminates the bad ideas and illuminates his path for me. He knows what he's doing."

"Sometimes I feel like everyone knows my own best friend better than I do," Steve grumbled.

In a surprise move, she smiled. "Yeah, well. Time doesn't always heal all wounds—sometimes it's _responsible_ for them."

"…Sometimes I don't even _recognize_ him." He sounded so very sad.

Natasha palmed the keys in her hand and set her elbow to the window ledge. "You're not really _supposed_ to. People change—even when it's _not_ because they were made to be someone… _something_ …else. People change, Steve. He's still Bucky. He's just…got more facets now, that's all."

Steve sighed again, long and deep. "…What did they do to our Darcy?"

She flinched at the unexpected question, her mind supplying her with a ringing echo not unlike a flat-lining heart monitor.

No reason to worry Steve just yet. And anyway, she didn't really have an answer for him. "I don't know. One minute she was unconscious, the next she was going toe-to-toe with Killian like a…like…"

"Like a what?"

She scowled at the thought of Steve's reaction to her next words. "Kind of like Bucky."

A very, very long moment of silence.

Then… "… _that Romanoff_?" said Tony in the background.

Steve was clearly lost in his own head. "Um…uh, yeah. It's Tasha."

The speaker was covered and muffled, there was the distant sound of voices conversing, and she heard what she knew was Steve's protective voice.

"Put him on, Steve. It's okay," she tried to call.

With a loud sigh, Steve came back on. "Are you sure?"

She watched a couple walk by in the rearview mirror, laughing, holding hands. "…Yeah."

When he spoke again, his voice was low, soft and intimate. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

"Come home to me."

Her chest tightened, but she swallowed back the cloying urge to cry again. "Soon."

And he was gone.

"You alright, Romanoff?" Tony suddenly said, his voice loud and clear.

"Fine, Stark."

"All in one piece?"

She couldn't stop the rueful smile on her mouth. Tony was always very direct. And his armor was so thick he _pretended_ not to care—the more he pretended not to care, the more he really cared. Steve oftentimes missed that little nuance. She suppose she figured people were maybe less complicated, socially, back when he'd grown up. No speed dating. No social media. No texting rules. Just people being people together.

Darcy had laughed, just a few weeks ago, the last time they'd met up, that he still didn't totally get tone and had completely missed a joke she'd made about Thor being a beast— _in bed_ , something he'd failed to put together. Jane's red face had apparently been his tip-off.

"What did they do to my girl, Romanoff?"

" _I think she's mostly Bucky's girl, Tony_ ," Steve could be heard saying in the background.

Tony ignored him.

She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. "You don't want to know, Stark." She looked gaunt and deep-eyed, pale and drawn. She sighed. She looked like she hadn't been laid in weeks.

Certainly felt that way.

"You going after them?"

"Keep you posted?"

"Better do."

" _Wait, that's it_?!" Steve grumbled as the two of them hung up.

She smirked and inserted the key in the steering column. Sometimes Steve forgot she and Stark had known each other longer than the two of them. They communicated on a rushed level, minimal effort to get the point across, much like they'd done during the whole Justin Hammer fiasco. Just get it out and get it done, no screwing around.

Being from the military, Steve should've understood that rather well.

She turned the engine over, smiling when it caught and she slotted it into gear. If Bucky could keep moving tiles around the board, this might even be fun. He could inadvertently make her tracking of them a little game.

"Your move, Buck."

((()))

Tony set Steve's Starkphone back to its home screen and tossed it back to him. "And that's how it's done."

Steve stared at him, mouth agape. "That was _it_?"

Tony shrugged. "What more was there supposed to be?"

He gestured. "And you just figured she'd be going after them? Just like that?"  
Tony eyed him skeptically. "She is your wife, right?"

Steve sighed, bristling. "That doesn't mean I'm okay with it."

"Well, no shit, _Sherlock_." He winked. "But it's what she does. _Femme Fatale_ and all that. Let her do her thing. It's not like you were gonna talk her out of it."

Steve grumbled under his breath, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Tony smiled thinly. "I think the phrase you're looking for here is, ' _Fucked up'_."

Steve rolled his eyes. "So, what's she got to tell us, hm?" He knelt over the body of the blond woman and frowned. "Pretty banged up."

Tony crouched, then craned his neck to peer up at the broken window of the garage. "Yeah, she said her name was Erwin?"

"Clytemnestra. Weird name."

"Greek myth."

Abruptly, he began away, toward the beach.

Steve, mouth open in surprise once again, scurried after him. "Stark, what—what are you _doing_?!" He swatted a bush branch out of his way and finally stopped next to his colleague, who was busy staring down at a small pile of rocks. He glanced down at it. "See one you need for your collection, or what?"

But Tony was silent as he crouched over it in the sand, picked one up and examined it. "Why make a pile of rocks on the beach?" He glanced down the strip of sand, finding two more, at the very least. "And why more than one?"

Steve, growing impatient, sighed, and pulled a hand down his face. "I dunno, Tony, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

Tony stood and, no surprise, moved back toward the house, pausing halfway.

Steve hurried after him again. "Stark, for _God's sake_ —"

"Romanoff said they had _two_ devices, right? Something to generate a constant EMP, and something else for—"

"A TMS, yeah. Whatever that is."

Tony pulled a hand through his shorn hair. "Focuses electrical activity in the brain. Wouldn't really affect anyone with normal activity without some sort of driving agent, but for someone whose brain chemistry has already been altered…"

Steve frowned. "You mean Bucky."

Tony started chewing on the inside of his cheek. "An EMP could take his arm out of service for a short time, give them a window."

"He can use the arm without power, though, Stark, it's just more difficult."

"Right, but it didn't have to be something that would necessarily take it down for a long period. But the TMS…"

"What are you getting at, exactly?"

He glanced back at the stones. "He mapped out the barrier."

Steve followed his gaze. "What barrier?"

"He drew a line in the sand where the signals ended, so he'd know how close he could get. Romanoff takes out any tech that's been controlling the equipment. She turns it off, allowing Bucky to infiltrate, her and Erwin have it out, she dumps the girl out the window as a signal."

Again, Steve's mouth dropped open and he stared for a moment. "Tony, that's…that's _genius_."

The inventor turned to give him a sardonic look. "Seriously, Rogers?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "That still doesn't tell us where they went."

((()))

Bucky was woken in deep darkness by a soft rumbling sound from out on the road. He groaned softly, adjusting, pressing his face into Darcy's torso, his mouth into the warmth of her belly. "Not now…" He squeezed his eyes shut, burrowing deeper against her and snaking his arm down her leg.

She sighed in her sleep, curling around him.

Then it stopped.

Then it started up again, a little louder.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," he murmured, edging his eyes clear and cutting a glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. 4:23am. Just before sunrise, the blinds keeping out the pre-dawn light starting to blush on the horizon.

Apparently their pursuers didn't think the Winter Soldier was fond of cuddling with a warm bed partner. Needless to say, after spending so long being told when to wake and when to sleep, after so long being physically and mentally manipulated, he was _not a morning person_ , let alone those mornings he wanted to spend extra time pressed against Darcy's warmth. And her t-shirt was _so soft_ …

Hissing, he sat up, listening. Definitely a car.

It stopped.

He cut his eyes over to the window, narrowing his gaze.

Then it started up again, slightly louder, and around the back of the building.

His mind turning it over, and highly annoyed at being woken when he'd finally gotten to sleep, he slid out of the bed and into his shorts, securing the button as he stepped into the bathroom. The tiny window near the ceiling was right at his eye level and he didn't need to stretch to see the black SUV creeping slowly around the back parking lot.

Range Rover Sport. 2015.

" _Shit_ ," he muttered under his breath, already moving. "Can't have any warm domesticity. Nope, sorry. Not for Bucky Barnes." He slid on a t-shirt. "Darcy," he said, not trying for quiet anymore, trying to pitch his voice so she'd snap to.

She jerked, her eyes snapping open.

"Darcy, c'mon. Gotta get up, babe." He tossed her tiny shorts onto the bed. He wasn't sure she was up for it just now, after her meltdown just a few hours earlier. But they didn't have a choice. The fates had chosen this moment—this _fucking_ moment. Of course, it was always when you were feeling the safest, the warmest, the most comfortable, always when hope was just beginning to seep back into your bones.

She frowned, groggy, and rubbed her red eyes. "Mm, what?"

He snatched up the backpack he'd been carrying around and pulled it open. "We got company, dollface. Time to move." Good thing he hadn't gotten that burner phone yet.

But then…how had they found them…?

Swallowing that pointless direction for now, he pulled out the ammo he'd stashed in the bottom of the bag and lined it up on the bed.

Darcy jerked upright. "Wait, _what_?"

"Look alive, Darce—we gotta move."

((()))

Understanding filtering slowly into her sluggish brain, Darcy lurched up out of the bed and snatched at her shorts, stumbling clumsily in her haste, but she managed to get dressed in the darkness. He didn't need to tell her twice. He was wearing his Winter Soldier voice. "When the hell did you get _ammo_? Ammo implies—"

He pulled out three nasty looking guns, a gorgeous sawed-off, a small pistol, and a smallish looking submachine that looked vaguely familiar.

"Guns! Your scary guns. When did you—"

"Focus, Darce. C'mon."

She shut right up at the strain in his voice. "Fucking hell," she muttered as she slid on her sandals and stuffed her toiletries into the outer pocket of the backpack, taking up the space the guns and ammo had relieved. He must've been stocking up on those mysterious trips he'd taken, leaving her locked in the room for a couple hours at a time. Why did the small automatic look familiar, though?

He settled the weapons on top and yanked the zipper closed, glancing quickly around the room. They'd left it pretty spare, ready to go at a moment's notice and there was nothing lying out. He held out his hand, palming the keys to the Lincoln. "'Kay?" He tried to convey the urgency, disappointment, and support in once glance and wasn't sure he managed it.

But she nodded, putting her hand in his.

He wove their fingers together and tugged, and they moved for the door. He peered out a tiny gap in the blinds and then unlocked the door and hustled her out behind him for cover, slamming the door shut behind them. Unfortunately this room didn't have the added advantage of a back way out and so he'd had to park in front.

"Well, this sucks," she declared. "So, what, you're gonna fight our way out of the parking lot like Bruce Willis?"

Bucky was already sweeping along. "I prefer to think of myself more like Daniel Craig in that opening sequence of _Spectre_ ," he said. "You know, the bit where the building falls out from under him and he just sorta rides it down without a scratch?"

"Gee, look at that—your alter ego has a sense of humor. I'm not showing you anymore Bond."

He threw her the keys and ran around to the passenger side. "You're driving," he told her.

" _What_?!" she gasped, shocked.

"I said, ' _you're driving'_! I need my hands free. Get in!"

Sighing, she hauled herself into the driver's seat and turned the engine over as Bucky opened his weapons bag on the floor at his feet. " _Seriously_?!"

His eyes were on the side mirror. "Just drive, doll."

So, holding her breath, she peeled it out of the lot. "God damn it, it was nice and warm back there. And _cuddly_ ," she whined, not really expecting any response. "Maybe if we go back and lock ourselves in, they'll go away." Or, better yet, they wouldn't be followed…

But, of course—they were. "Shit," she muttered, watching them in the rearview mirror as she revved it up to eighty, the state highway dead around them as the black SUV bounced out of the motel lot behind them. "Where the fuck are we, _master sergeant_?"

"Just go straight," he ordered her, the crack of his shotgun an eerie accompaniment as he loaded it, snapping it shut and swinging it around.

He reached over and lowered the window.

"What are you _doing_?!"

"Just drive, babe." His voice was low and subdued, somewhere between Jamie and Winter Soldier, and it sent a foreboding chill up her spine. "And if it makes you feel any better, the reply to your complaint is no—there isn't anywhere I'd rather be than tucked in bed with you. That's pretty much the only place I want to be, just about all the time."

She sighed.

There was a bang behind them, rapidly followed by a clank as a bullet struck the backend of the truck.

She jumped, gasping.

He hauled himself half out the window and fired off a round.

She jumped again, higher, at the deeper report. "Oh, God."

"Keep it together, Darce."

"Oh, _shut up_ , Barnes." She accelerated, watching the SUV swerve around behind them, trying to come up on their side and still keep a good angle as they evaded his shots. "Seriously—this was supposed to be a honeymoon, like, swimming, making out on the beach, _lots_ of sex—I had every intention of having _lots of sex_! How did it turn into a firefight?!"

Another bullet clanked against their rear and her husband fired off another round, cursing when the truck swerved behind them and he missed.

"Oh, right," she continued, bitter. "I'm a _freak_ now, so we're a matched set—we're like those collectible action figures they make of superheroes! I could be the Wonder Woman chick and you can be the broody Batman—like in that crappy movie they did last spring!"

He curled himself back into the cab. "Bad angle."

"Oh, of course. Gotta have the _right angle_." They swerved behind them again, and she put her foot to the floor, gassing it. " _Damn_ it."

"Use the whole road, babe," he instructed.

So she lurched while he reloaded, this time with that smallish automatic that looked really creepy—and really familiar. "Did you have that when you tried to kill Steve?" she asked offhandedly. She'd looked it up once. A Czech machine gun. Skorpion—with a 'K'. Because what could make it creepier?

"I did—thanks for the reminder," he said sardonically.

"Anytime," she answered as she lurched back again, gassing it up to one hundred. "Holy shit, I don't think I've ever gone this fast before!"

"Just keep it on the road, okay? You've got this," he said as he flicked the button for the sunroof. Good thing they hadn't swapped cars yet, either. How convenient that this one had a giant _hole_ in the roof that he could take advantage of.

"This is _fucking_ insane, Jamie! _Insane_! We're in an action movie! I married an _action movie star_! Fuck my life!" she yelled over the wind as he disappeared out of the roof. "You're lucky you're mind blowing in bed, you jack ass," she continued, muttering under her breath.

He reached down and ruffled her hair in a sign that he'd heard her perfectly well, and she swatted at his hand.

More ammo hit their back and she gasped, clutching at his knee. The car lurched again, and she gasped again, switching her grip back to the wheel, white-knuckling it. And just then it happened—her hands started to itch and burn against the steering wheel.

He fired off another shot, but the SUV lurched again and he missed.

" _Fuck_ ," she breathed, trying to will her heart to slow as she stared, wide-eyed, at her hands as they started to flicker and tingle.

"Darce?" he called.

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine. Just do your soldier-y thing," she replied, trying to speak past the thin rasp of her voice. "We're good." Under her breath, "What the fuck is this?!"

They fired off more rounds and his knee twisted as he ducked.

"Don't you _dare_ die!" she cried, her heart lurching in time with the truck as she turned the wheel. "If you get shot, I'm too young to be a widow!"

He fired off another shot and ducked back in. "Their driver is good with evasive maneuvers."

"Of course he is," she muttered.

"You're doing great, babe."

She glanced in the mirror. "Not so much."

He turned.

The truck was gaining on them now, foot by foot, and yard by yard, and she didn't know how much more she could squeeze out of the MKZ. She wasn't a stunt driver, after all, she had no idea how to execute cool maneuvers like power slides and controlled skids. "Jamie—you gotta think of something, okay?" She swallowed hard against the blind panic.

His hand settled around her knee. "Focus on my voice, okay? My voice and your breathing—it's just like the meditation technique I walked you through last week."

"Right."

He'd taught her one of his techniques just a week prior on the beach, during the sunset, had walked her through the activity of focusing on her breathing.

"Mindfulness. Right," she repeated, drawing her focus to her heartbeat.

She lost all that, though, when they were rammed from behind, hard, and the momentum threw her against the steering column. She gasped out a shout of protest, but the impact hurt less than she'd expected.

"Keep it together," he coached again as he rose back out the sunroof, using their closer position to his advantage.

Sure enough, a moment later, he fired off a deafening round and she glanced back to see a spray of blood hit the inside of the windshield behind them.

The truck swerved, careening left and losing speed.

"Get him?" she yelled over the wind noise.

"Passenger!" he called back as it righted itself and continued its pursuit, rapidly regaining their lost momentum to ram them again, harder, before lurching left and managing to eek out enough room to come up on their left.

"Fuck," she muttered as he dropped back down into the cab, switching out the gun for a handheld, his beloved SIG.

"Lean back, keep breathing," he instructed, his voice even and stabilizing. "I'm here." The clip on the gun made a sexy, slick clacking noise as he pulled it back and checked the magazine, then did it again as he slammed it back in place. Then he lowered her window, firing as soon as it was halfway down, dodging return fire as she plastered herself against her seat, trying not to pass out, her hands growing hot on the wheel.

One shot.

Two shots.

Return fire.

Three shots.

A raw shout, then the truck fell rapidly back.

" _Gotcha_ ," he muttered, throwing himself back out of the roof to fire again, and she glanced back to find the truck careening on two wheels, the front passenger tire blown out.

It rolled in her rearview mirror, then rolled again and disappeared into the ditch.

She was gasping, staring in horror at her glowing, red hands. The air rippled with heat and the leather of the steering wheel was scarring beneath her grip, the singed smell of it filling the interior. Her grip white-knuckled on the wheel, her mind a tussle of rapid panic that was spiraling so hard she couldn't get a grip on it. What the _fuck_ had they done to her?!

Slowly, his voice broke through. "Darce…Darcy, babe, ease off. You can ease off. They're gone for now…"

Her foot eased off, and they slowed, and slowed, until finally, she'd thrown it in park and scrambled out of the driver's seat, shivering and shaking, her hands a terrifying shade of neon orange-yellow. "Oh, God, I'm gonna _throw up_ —"

She tumbled clumsily to the ground, catching herself up against the car, her hand slithering along a ragged bullet scar in the paint job. She stumbled into the ditch and threw herself to all fours, her whole body one huge shiver, her skin crawling so hard she wasn't in physical control.

But nothing happened. Her skin was clammy and cold. _But nothing happened_.

She was alone. Her hands faded until they were just her hands again.

It felt like forever that she was alone, though she was sure in some distant corner of her mind that it was only a matter of a moment or two while he let her get her bearings.

When a palm settled—warm and heavy—over her tailbone, she jumped, gasping out a pathetic mewl that she couldn't stop, no matter how much she hated it.

He didn't speak for a long few moments, letting her drift in the buzzing silence ringing in her head.

She swallowed against her dry throat, her arms trembling just in the effort of holding herself up.

But he was there, offering a hand, ever vigilant, but never stifling, a solid, steadying expression on his face. "You're okay."

She set her hand in his and let him pull her up, limp and unable to help him no matter how she wished again, that she could close the damnable gap between her brain and her body. "Shit…"

"You're alright. It's just the adrenaline," he murmured, and somehow she heard him over the ringing in her head, the blood rushing in her ears. "Focus on my voice."

She nodded, panting for air and trying to swallow again past her dry throat. "I've been in stuff like that before. I could handle an Asgardian Destroyer."

He cupped her face, tipping his forehead forward until it rested on hers. "A high-speed chase while under fire is a little different, Darce. You did well."

"Oh, don't be sweet. The Hell I did."

"Have I ever lied to you?" He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, holding her for a moment that was too short. "We can't stay here. They won't stay down for long." He broke away, but wrapped an arm around her waist, helping her around the truck to the passenger side. "That really was a kick-ass job you did back there."

But she was on autopilot.

He settled her in the car, secured her in, and went around, slid the key in the ignition and pulled back out onto the road.

And she was out.


	13. Chapter 13: A Beautiful Lie

**Chapter 13** **: A Beautiful Lie**

 **Summary:** **In which more chases ensue-and our pair have a few moments of welcome insight.**

 **Notes:** **Hi, All! I'm back. Dunno if anyone cares (I can never quite tell...) but here's the next chapter. This one is pretty low on angst and high on action/drama. Hopefully everyone's good with that. I'm also nowhere near the end of this puppy, so hopefully you guys are good with that too. I've also got a few ideas rolling around (Halloween!) for what might eventually come after this. Let me know how you like this, guys. I know I'm sometimes slow on the replies. In all honesty, I'm usually on my tablet, not my laptop, since I don't really have a desk for it, and it's such a pain typing on a tablet screen. So I am aware of that and I apologize if that turns anyone off. It's really not personal and I do seriously appreciate any and all feedback you guys pause in your lives to give. I'm having so much fun with this stuff, and it's so nice to hear I'm doing something right. So let me know if you like/don't like/have a question/idea or prompt.** **A few notes: The chapter title is taken from a song of the same name by 30 Seconds to Mars. If you like Jared Leto movies, go and give his band a listen-Oscar-winning acting is not the only thing he's amazing at. Also, the other songs mentioned do not belong to me, but to U2, My Chemical Romance, Bon Jovi, Golden Earring, The Wallflowers, Rihanna, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Tom Cochrane, respectively. Hopefully I didn't miss anyone. The bands mentioned are all their own entities, obviously. I only use them all here to illustrate a funny aside concerning road trips. Wanted is the property of Universal and its affiliates, as well as the writers of the original comic book by Mark Millar and JG Jones.** **Small triggery warning: There is mention of 9/11 in this chapter. I was writing and it just sort of happened organically. I scrapped it, then it ended up back in here anyway, as I felt it led well into the conversation that takes place immediately thereafter. Just wanted to put that out there, so that anyone who needs to, for whatever reason, wants to skim over it when it comes around. Little aside: Obviously I've changed names and things, but this is pretty much my memory of the whole ordeal. Ick. Felt a little good to type it out, though, you know?** **Anyway. I'll shut up now. Let me know how you like. Love y'all.** **Sarah** **((()))**

"Anything?"

Very gently, Bucky turned both her palms over and studied them. But they were just her hands, her tiny little fragile hands—or, at least, they still looked that way. "You said they turned orange?"

She nodded. " _Glowing_. And they got hot. Like—"

"Extremis," he finished, heaving a long sigh.

She let her head flop back on the pillow, looking up at a new ceiling in a new motel room, cleaner this time, but still slightly used, what she could swear was an identical crack to the one in their last stopover. "Well, _shit_."

It was quiet for a long moment, the ticking of the clock on the retro, wood-paneled far wall as it kept the hour.

"That how he got into the beach house? Killian?" Bucky finally asked into the echoing silence.

She nodded, her hair rubbing along the pillow. "Melted the handle on the screen door. Ripped it off one hinge."

He scowled, that old look back on his face, the intense glower, the 'Winter Soldier glare', minus the half-mask that had kept his identity a secret. Darcy had always wondered if HYDRA's intention had been to keep him a secret from the world, from Captain America—or just himself. Was it a muzzle to enforce the idea that he was in their control, like a leashed dog? If he could have looked in a mirror all those long years, would he have recognized his own face? He'd said after 'waking up', as he called it, on that helicarrier, he'd barely recognized the look in his own eyes.

He'd shivered at the sensation, and looked away from her.

The entire ordeal was as far-fetched as it was possible to be.

She'd steered accidentally into a _Viking Space God_.

She'd been indirectly targeted by a Destroyer _thing_ that had spat fire at her.

She'd been left for hours while her friend/employer traveled through all of space and time, like a companion on _Doctor Who_.

She'd busted a mentally unstable scientist out of the loony bin.

She'd been attacked by _birds_. She'd had a sedan half lifted off of her. Now that she thought about it, she wasn't even sure what kind of car it was…

She'd almost been snuffed out by a cosmic shift in worlds from—of course— _space_. Elves were supposed to be tall and blonde and hot, and good at archery, with British accents. _That was the Tolkien-established rule_.

She'd picked up and moved and ended up in the tallest skyscraper in New York, in a talking apartment.

She'd gained a Genius-Billionaire-Playboy-Philanthropist would-be father.

She'd made out with a brainwashed former Soviet _assassin_ from World War- _fucking_ -Two, who could move like lightning and shift like liquid shadows.

She'd _married_ him.

She'd been stuck with mechanical parts, and needles, and knives, and now she was this… _thing_ …this subhuman, super-creature that had no name and no place, and her _assassin_ husband was looking at her with a thinly veiled expression of grief that told her just how much he wanted to _die_ over it all.

And she laughed.

It was too much.

She absolutely burst out laughing, starting slowly, low and soft. Then the low, soft thing became a giggle, and a laugh, then a bubbling thing unto itself, until she was laughing so hard there was a stitch in her side and she was in pain, tears streaming down her face, her hands over her mouth as she tried to stop.

Bucky flinched. "Darcy."

She nodded, but couldn't speak.

"Darcy," he repeated, his voice softening. "Darcy, you're hysterical."

She managed to gather a single breath. "I _know_!" But the laughing didn't loosen its grip.

" _Darcy_ …" He was wincing, now, looking pained and vaguely lost.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped, trying to sit up, half curled in on herself at the will of the awful laughter. There was a hard, crystalline pain in her chest. The stitch had moved and had taken up residence there, in her heart, encasing it in a candy coating that was immediately in danger of shattering in her chest. The laughter morphed and went icy and cold, dampening into gasps, then changing again, until she was barely aware that she was sobbing brokenly, hard, wracking sobs that she couldn't contain any longer.

In an instant, she was back in their kitchen in her mind.

She was curled on the tiled floor, half drunk on empty vodka, and Bucky was gone—taken—and she was alone, God knew how alone, or if he was alive or dead, or worse—if he was the _other_ Bucky that he hated still had a small section of territory in his mind.

She was back in that kitchen, crying harder than she'd ever cried in years, completely powerless against the wave that had swept her up, caught in the vicious undertow and unable to paddle out.

But she _wasn't_ alone.

And she _wasn't_ in their kitchen.

She wasn't even at home, the place she'd come to call home, anyway, the physical space she associated with warmth and enclosed areas, if home was even a real physical place, or a person or a feeling; she was completely adrift, terrifyingly unmoored.

"Darcy…" Bucky whispered softly, so softly, coming around the bed where he'd been kneeling beside her on the floor. The mattress dipped with his weight. His arms came around her, his hard body against her back.

She allowed herself to curl against him, only barely aware of her own decisions, acting completely on instinct and seized by some nameless need to surrender herself completely.

His arms tightened, then tightened again, and again, and his face was pressed into the back of her neck, his mouth warm against her vertebrae, his metal arm cool and stabilizing around her middle.

He was speaking, but she wasn't sure what he was saying. She barely heard him, and only enough to know it wasn't English. Probably Russian. Or German. Or French, or whatever other language was up in that lock-and-key head of his, twisted up like a maze with no map.

He didn't implore her to stop.

He didn't tell her it was alright. This wasn't the time for that particular lie.

He didn't bother trying to dry her face.

He just tightened his embrace until she couldn't stand anymore, all the while murmuring to her soothing things that meant everything and nothing all at once, the feeling clear but the words lost in the language barrier.

Which was probably by his design.

Bucky was clever.

He was so much cleverer and sharp than most people gave him credit for.

And he was so much better a man than most people gave him credit for, too.

Only a good man would just lie there with her while she fell so completely apart and not ask anything; he just let her take.

((()))

They didn't do much talking for a while after that.

They stirred between furious flight and desperate boredom. Or, at least, it seemed that way to Darcy.

He let her sleep late. This was fine by her, since the nightmares were getting more and more aggressive and she knew that he knew it. They'd take off the next afternoon after lunch and drive for a day and a half, sometimes two. He never let her take the wheel, though, going just as far as his physical limits could take him. That amount of time was dwindling and it was doubtlessly due to his return to normal civilian life. Where he and Steve could go for days—hours and hours—without sleep, their limits were shrinking as they became domesticated.

She stopped offering to trade with him.

They made out in the car when he needed a rest in a parking lot, and they steamed up the windows on more than one occasion, laughing like teenagers as she yanked his t-shirt off over his head.

Even in all the solemn silence, she followed him into the shower, or they barely made it into their motel room, the door slamming shut, hard, behind his back as she plastered him against it.

In a short blip of conversation, he confessed that he was so worried over her that he didn't know what to do with himself and had no clue what he'd do if something were to happen to her. When she insisted that she was safe with him—who would dare challenge the fucking _Winter Soldier_?!—it only made him more anxious. He wasn't so sure his reputation was as untarnished as it once had been and he was terrified that he wouldn't be enough anymore. He spent a lot of time watching through slits in curtains from lonely tables across rooms, those _Winter Soldier Glares_ sharp as flint on the lookout for any potential pursuers. He'd gone from _Mother Bear_ to _Alpha Wolf_ , his haunches on constant arousal.

She had to admit that having a man be so unassuming and yet possessive of her was a serious turn-on. She was sort of bummed she hadn't been able to hang on to her lacy lingerie, not that it had been in any fit state anyway.

She slept for long periods on the road. Once she woke to find her hands glowing again of their own volition, and Bucky pulled over to watch with a fascinated, frustrated furrowed brow, while she stared, wide-eyed and told him not to touch her.

Once she woke to find him scowling at the rear-view mirror, and she was thrown against the armrest when he took a hard right at the freeway exit, snickering as the SUV under suspicion went harmlessly by, too late to turn off.

They drove even longer that time, and she woke in the darkness of yet another motel room, pressed against Bucky's bare chest.

This went on for nearly a week and two states, and she found the next sign they passed mentioned a town on the border of Oklahoma.

"I'd say that it's remarkable we've made it this far without catching any heat, but I'm a firm believer in The Jinx," she said one afternoon, rolling the window down on the black Range Rover Evoque they'd absconded with the day before. It was seriously nice and seriously British and she settled her feet on the dash and leaned the seat back just a bit—there. _Perfect_.

"So don't jinx it," Bucky said, smirking as he leaned forward to adjust the volume on the radio.

"I feel like we need a soundtrack to go with this road trip, like in _Elizabethtown_."

He chuckled, checking the mirror. "And what would be on it?"

She sighed. "Oh, you know. _Life Is A Highway. One Headlight. Shut Up and Drive_."

He was openly smiling now. "Will I know any of these songs, I wonder?"

She snorted. "If I've done my homework, then yes. Hm. What else is there? _Wanted_ , Bon Jovi. That's disturbingly appropriate. _Where The Streets Have No Name_."

"U2?"

"Very good, _grasshopper_. Then there's _Sweet Home Alabama_. Will we pass through—no, we won't. Shit, never mind. _Radar Love_! There's one a lot of people wouldn't think of." She lowered the window a little more. "We've gotta stop at one of those stupid, cheesy roadside attractions, like the World's Largest Ball of Twine or some garbage."

He let out a surprisingly bright shout of laughter.

She giggled, watching him. His face had the joyous habit of opening up like a beam of sunlight, if you could just manage to hit the right button. She still wasn't quite sure which one it was. But she was looking forward to studying him and figuring it out over the coming decades—assuming they got that far. Listen to her—becoming all domesticated.

"I mean, seriously. Let's be honest—were we really ever going to have a honeymoon like the one we were having? _Were_ we? Logically speaking, this one is _way_ more our style. We were never gonna get away with the other one, just like I said. It was too perfect, it was too _spotless_. This mess of shit we're in now is _way_ more typical."

"Since we seem to be slaves to Murphy's Law, sure," Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

She grinned at him from the passenger seat. "Is this that cheesy moment where I say that line about 'at least we're together' or some awful crap?"

He chuckled, but his hand wrapped around her thigh and squeezed.

"Hey, are you okay?" she suddenly asked, looking over at him, hard.

He was good— _almost_ good enough—but even the Winter Soldier took just a split second too long to answer, and for Darcy's ears, it damned him. "Fine. Why?"

She watched the flat prairie whip by out her window, a lurking sadness creeping up out of the sunlight, hidden over her shoulder, even in the bright, relaxed SUV. She'd let him have his lie—for now. "Nothing."

((()))

He was different.

She wasn't sure just how, but she knew something about him was.

He was back in his own head again, like he'd been after they'd first met—a little reserved, a little bit too quiet, a little bit brooding.

It wasn't as bad, by any means.

And he tried to hide these dark moods from her, better at it now than he'd been before.

But she still caught him once in a while, all through the first half of Oklahoma.

Usually he either thought she was asleep, or perhaps thought her distracted. He'd sit by the window in whatever motel they'd chosen for the night. His body would be loose and relaxed, boneless and totally still after their lovemaking, and he'd sit by the window, playing lookout, too awake to sleep.

And she'd watch him from the dark corner of the bed, lying on her side, eyes half shut. The glare of sharp watchfulness would slowly melt and he'd stare, unblinking, that old look returning anew: _a man out of time_. One part old grief, one part Thousand Yard Stare.

And she knew something had changed over those five days she'd been held captive—something aside from her physical transformation, whatever it was. They didn't know yet.

Something in him had changed, shifted, tugging him back a step.

She knew it was working him over harder than even he let on when she crossed the room to him one night and he didn't even budge. "Jamie…?"

He breathed, leaning back into her as she pressed against his back. "Mm?"

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face into the warmth of his neck. "What is it?"

He didn't flinch, and he didn't jerk, nothing. "What do you mean?"

She pressed her mouth against his pulse, his soft hair brushing over her cheek. "You're different. What's wrong? I won't break. You can tell me."

His left hand came up and wrapped around her arm, his head turning to meet her face. "We're solid, dollface. Go back to bed." Not at all the sort of thing he said.

She pressed another kiss to his throat. "Not without you."

"Darce, someone should keep watch."

She pulled back, tugging on his metal shoulder. "If they're coming, let them come," she murmured.

He stood, but slowly, and his face gave a jerk of surprise at her pronouncement. "Darcy—"

"Sshh. Not without you."

He let her tug him along by the hand. "But, Darcy—"

"They can do whatever they want. If they beat the door down and torch the place, I don't care anymore. They'll find me peacefully asleep—beside you."

He sighed. "Darcy…"

She sat down on the bed again and tugged on him.

He relented, hesitantly, arranging the blankets around them, loosely. It was the height of summer and they were in the southwest, after all. "I'll feel vulnerable with my back to the door."

She curled up against his front. "Then you'll never see them coming," she sighed, nuzzling his collarbone and pressing against him. "You've done enough running. Enough for ten lifetimes. It's time to rest."

((()))

Famous. Last. Words.

They spent the next few days making very little progress.

Bucky had absolutely no idea how, but they'd been found.

Just like that.

They spent an entire afternoon trying to shake a tail. Bucky was never confident they'd been successful and so they drove twice as long as they usually did. He finally let her take the wheel—after a very quiet, but fairly vicious fight for territory—after which he promptly passed out in the passenger seat.

Darcy would never admit that she white-knuckled the wheel the entire four hours he spent unconscious, eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

It was clear they were being shadowed, although by whom and how tightly was up for debate.

They didn't stop for _days_.

Bucky finally relented to her doing a share of the driving so they didn't have to stop.

To combat her nerves during these shifts, she blasted music from her USB-connected iPod.

The Beatles.

U2.

Bon Jovi and Whitesnake, Boston and Foreigner.

She mixed it up with old favorites from her rebellious punk years. My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Paramore and Panic at the Disco. The louder it was, the harder, the rougher, the better, the more it hardened her resolve.

A true soldier, Bucky slept through it all, like a machine.

She winced as the old idea crossed her mind.

They went through three days like this, almost to the Oklahoma border.

"Go back to that last one—that was good."

She jumped, letting out a small peep as Bucky spoke from the passenger seat, his eyes still closed, giving the effect that he was asleep, his legs all folded up, his gorgeous thighs on distracting display. "Shit, Jamie," Darcy gasped, checking the rearview mirror again.

He sat up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. You looked pretty intense."

" _Intense_?" she snarked. "Nah, not at all. Just watching, on pins and needles, for the next group of bad guys to show up. They always do. It's just a matter of time before our small patch of domestic bliss is overrun with a tiny attempt at takeover from some invasive species."

He stretched.

She huffed out a sigh, trying to center herself. "Which song?"

"The one about the World Trade Center."

She blinked. "9/11?"

He shrugged. "I might've been asleep, but I've got an eidetic memory and a ton of secure files—I know the day almost as well as you. Isn't that what the last song was alluding to?"

She thought back, her memory clouded, as it had been for the past few days, only half the pistons firing. Much like him, she suspected, she was running on one instinct—survival. For the past few days, that mostly meant driving, with only the occasional verbal check in. They'd kissed a total of once. Not that that really mattered. For someone as damaged as Bucky, he was very touchy-feely with her—always had been—and he told her he loved her with the simple occasional gesture of his hand on her thigh. As an unfortunate side-effect of the constant adrenaline overload, she was so strung out with the need for a good bone-shaking she could hardly stand it. Now that she'd been altered, one of these days, she was going to demand he not hold back one ounce with her in bed, just so she could know how strong he was. There was something deliciously appealing about surrender to someone you trusted, deep down, in your blood, someone you knew would never hurt you, and the intoxicating way that it had an opposing effect.

"You mean, that MCR song?" She pressed a button on the steering wheel. "It's called _The Only Hope for Me Is You_."

The song started over again. It had always been her favorite on that particular album, as much as the subject bothered her—bothered a lot of people her age, she figured.

She sighed. "I was in eighth grade Algebra. No. Geometry. I was in Geometry. Morning Geometry period with Mr. Saltzberg. It was, like, eight in the morning, and he was his chipper morning-person self and I was trying to follow mildly confusing structures and not fall asleep. That was before I'd really discovered coffee."

He didn't speak, but she could always feel when he was listening.

"The other teacher knocked on the door. Ms. Huber. He always called her The Vixen. They flirted shamelessly, though I always suspected he might be gay." She smiled at the memory. "Not that that matters, of course. And he opened the door, ready to joke around, but the smile dropped off his face as she muttered to him, like it had been scripted that way, like he was acting out a part."

He didn't move.

"He rushed over to the TV—all the rooms had them, they televised the morning announcements and all that stupid school bullshit, you know? And he turned it on and it was like he'd been watching the news before we came in or something, because he didn't need to go hunting. It was right there, right there on the screen. Even if you're thirteen and you've got no fucking idea what a _World Trade Center_ even _is_ , you can tell something isn't right when a skyscraper is burning like a Christmas tree in March."

A white SUV went around them in the right lane and she glared at them defensively through Bucky's window. His metal hand landed on her thigh and squeezed reassuringly.

"Only one?" he asked.

She swallowed. "We were just in time to see the second plane hit."

He sucked in a breath.

"He started crying. I remember being dumbfounded and _disturbed_ that my cool Geometry teacher—a volunteer _fire fighter_ on the side—was _weeping_. But he was. He was standing there, with his hands over his mouth, and he kept whispering "Oh, my God" over and over." She turned the volume down on the song. "We kept it on long enough to see the first tower go down in a plume of black smoke, like a child's toy. All that glass and steel, and it folded in on itself like some kind of action movie special effect. The room was silent. The newscasters were silent. I've never heard quiet like that before or since."

He was quiet, too.

"But I guess every generation has one, right? I mean, we all get more than one, I guess, in an entire lifetime, but every generation has that nasty _thing_ that shapes their world outlook, right? You had Pearl Harbor." She stopped herself before she could mention her grandparents and JFK, reflexively flinching as she pictured him in some 1963 doorway with his HYDRA advanced weaponry, crouched there, just waiting for the perfect angle to snipe the _President of the fucking United States_. She couldn't decide if her heart hurt at the September memory or at the idea that he'd been responsible for one like it. "That one was ours, I guess." She wondered what other world leaders they'd forced him to eliminate and her hands tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles went white.

Martin Luther King?

Bobby Kennedy?

What she wouldn't do to Zola if she could've strapped him to a chair for an _hour_ …

She glanced over at him, but he was staring out his window, his head back against the headrest, his hair so soft and tempting. She wanted to curl in his lap and tuck her head beneath his chin, and just stay there for the rest of her life, never moving.

"No, I don't remember what I used," he suddenly said, his voice low.

She jerked in her seat to stare at him.

But he continued to stare out the window. "Some things are clear and sharp and others are still hazy. But it's there, all the same." His reflection gave away an expression on his face that matched the dull, hollow tone, lost in a memory. "And I didn't take that first shot. Someone _other_ than HYDRA was there that day." His tone went grim. " _I_ wouldn't have missed. I didn't miss. I _never_ missed. No matter who was in my way."

Darcy's memories flickered to Natasha, shot straight through and bye-bye bikinis and Steve's same quip _every, single time_.

"Whoever that was, he was pretty good, but he was an amateur for a job like that. Sloppy, getting him in the neck like that. The angle wasn't right, he was overanxious, and took his shot too soon, never bothered to set it up. Put the job in danger, gave away the game, gave away his position. Should've left it to a professional." He turned to glance back through the rear window at the light traffic around them. "I was gone before he'd even slumped over. Didn't need to confirm kill—Jackie's screams were confirmation enough."

A chill went up her back.

"But I didn't shoot his brother—or King. Dunno who that was. CIA, maybe. AIM."

She blinked, then blinked again. " _Conspiracy_ theories, much?"

He shrugged. "I've seen too many moving cogs to believe the strings aren't being pulled. Hell, I _was_ a cog. Still am."

She swallowed, digesting all this awful information, the nearly inconceivable idea that she was having her very thoughts read, it seemed, and confirmed all on one go. "So…Oswald—"

"Was either a dumb-ass and a shit shot, or a patsy." He leaned to peer around the car behind the one directly behind them. "Get in the right lane."

She checked her blind spot and followed his instructions, still reeling in shock.

"The joys of being manipulated," he muttered sardonically, eyes still sharp on their rear.

"Yeah, I guess we really are a matched set, now, huh?"

"No."

This answer was so direct and assured sounding that she did a double take on him— _again_. "What? Why not?"

He leaned back the other way to study the side mirror. "A matched set would imply equality." Still, that grim tone lingered in his voice.

She glanced in the rearview, but didn't see anything that appeared worrisome. "Well. Yeah. I mean, you're still stronger than me—you're stronger than, like, almost _everyone_ , but—"

"Strength has nothing to do with it."

His tone was so dark it knocked her flat for a second. "I…I don't understand."

He gestured to the red Cadillac in their kitty-corner. "Get in front of that Caddy, but make it look unhurried."

She went about it.

"Being a matched set implies equality. Which would be fine if _I_ wasn't _me_ ," he continued, still watching out the tinted back windshield. If it was a British SUV did that make it a wind _screen_ , even though they were _driving_ it in the _US_? She wondered. "But…"

"Maintain speed."

She sighed, glancing in the side mirror as she slid in front of the Cadillac, and flicked off her blinker. "So…75?"

"Yep."

She frowned, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Jamie…"

"Just relax. I'm not sure if we're being tailed or not. Might be nothing."

It was silent for a moment and she tried to force her fingers to slacken on the wheel a bit. He didn't know that she'd learned to read his voice for lies. And he was _such a fucking liar._

"If _I_ wasn't _me_ , then your statement is perfectly valid. _But I'm me_."

The Caddy was personally offended by their passing and promptly got in the right lane, blowing past them to play road rage games. She grumbled under her breath. "Meaning?"

He very casually reached down to the pack at his feet and pulled the zipper open. "Meaning there's no possible argument you can make where I deserve you, therefore nullifying your statement." He selected a Beretta, pulled back the magazine, checked the clip, and snapped it back in, the clacking sharp in the cabin. "And we're being boxed in."

She opened her mouth to argue anyway, but just at that moment, the Caddy cut her off and broke, forcing her to slam on the brakes, grinding her teeth as she braced for impact. " _Fuck_."

"Keep going," he coached, shifting in his seat as the car behind them honked and pulled up slack, disappearing as she gassed it again, the Caddy making sure to keep a just-low-enough speed to keep them penned on the right.

" _Deserve_ me?!" she squawked. "You realize that's _bullshit_ , right?! You're spouting _bullshit_."

He unhitched his seatbelt. "Babe, we were just discussing my assassination of _John F. Kennedy_ and the whole part where his wife clung to the back of a speeding convertible, _screaming for dear life_. You don't have any hairs to split." He sat forward to switch off the air conditioning, then lowered his window and reached up to press the sunroof switch.

For a long moment, Darcy's heart pounded while the mechanics growled, the window popping and sliding back with a grinding noise. " _Deserve_ me." She was studying the back of the Caddy. It was an older model, an Eldorado, from the late eighties—perfect for blending in. She was horrified to realize she hadn't been paying close enough attention to remember how long they'd been with it.

A white SUV pulled in behind them in the space left vacant by the honking driver what had to be blocks and blocks back now, the same SUV she'd glared at earlier. "Jamie…"

"Keep it cool, keep it collected," he soothed, his voice low and steady, even over the wind rushing in through his window, and he reached over to adjust her headrest.

"What's that for?"

"We takes shots from behind, I want your head protected. This covers the back of your skull and the most vital parts of your brain stem. Don't mess with it."

She blew out a long breath. "Oh, _that's_ comforting."

"I may not deserve you, but I'm gonna do everything in my power to make sure you come out the other side of this with all limbs intact and your brain unscrambled, _thank you very much_."

Again, she opened her mouth to argue his various points, but he didn't let her. "Ram them."

She jerked. " _What_?!"

" _Ram_ them. I wanna get off this freeway and away from all this collateral damage. Ram them, get out ahead if you can and take the first exit you come across. They want to throw down, we'll throw down, but I'm not taking anyone else with us. I've killed enough people, I'm not adding more to my list in the middle of rural Oklahoma."

Adrenaline spiking in her veins and fizzing along her synapses, she gunned it, slamming hard into the back of the Eldorado with a wince.

"Good. Do it again."

She did. The Caddy jerked to the side but held the lane.

"Lock into their backend and then increase your speed."

She slammed more gently into their rear and put increasing pressure on the gas pedal, pushing them forward, little by little, forcing them to speed up, their tires smoking and squealing.

"Keep it up. We have to get past this truck on the right."

It was a red pick-up, perhaps there to keep them boxed in, perhaps merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Finally, they cleared it, and without any prompting, she swung them right and barely made the exit, clipping an orange barrel in the process, the Rover leaning precariously.

The Caddy didn't make it.

The white truck did.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she murmured under her breath.

" _Focus_ ," he coached again, just like the last time they'd been in this situation. "I'm not letting them take you. They can't have you, you're _mine_." Again, with that grim tone.

Nerves getting the better of her, she laughed shakily. "If you weren't such a romantic idiot, I'd accuse you of being a misogynist."

He pulled another gun from the pack on the floor, that creepy Skorpion, and set it on the console at the ready. "You can thank me later." Then, in a moment of clarity between them, he turned to look her full in the face, and he gave her that smile of his, the one that melted her down to butter. "You're doing great, doll." He winked.

She took a deep, deep breath, watching their pursuers in the mirror.

His hand again, on her thigh, his metal thumb rubbing soothingly along her knee. "Hm?"

She swallowed thickly. "I love you."

He paused. "…We're gonna get through this, okay? We _will_. I'll make sure of it. You trust me?"

She nodded, her mind's eye supplying an old image, a very early one, of herself, sitting on the floor in her bedroom, her face just a few lousy feet from her old analog TV, Aladdin coming through the adapted VHS player. He stared down at Jasmine with his hand held out, his large, Disney eyes reassuring, his mouth tilted at that angle just so, a little daring, but mostly just open and filled with a bottomless want that had stuck with her all her adult life. So she nodded. "Yes."

"I'm gonna make this up to you. I _will_. I swear it."

She let a short laugh escape. "You already took your vows, Jamie. I won't hold you to any extensions. And this isn't your fault. You have _got_ to stop assuming everything nasty is your fault. This _shit_ with SHIELD has been dirty since The War, you _know_ that. And I've been mired in this muck for years now. It's about time it caught up with me. Realistically speaking, I'm a little amazed I've even made it this far. By all rights, I probably should've been vaporized by Loki's destroyer back in Puente Antiguo."

He checked the clip on the Skorpion. "Don't say that."

She snorted. "Why not?"

"Because it…" He sounded uncharacteristically vulnerable. "…it hurts to hear." He sighed. "And I know I've probably said worse, but…I've…I've been in this longer than you have. It's too late for me, baby. There's too much red in my ledger, but you…"

She pressed her foot down on the accelerator, watching the truck gain distance on them. "I'm no pure white, sparkly _unicorn_ , Jamie."

He didn't laugh. "I _know_. It's just…" He huffed in frustration. "I won't pretend it doesn't make me sound like an old-fashioned asshole, but I want to shield you from what I can, and _everything's_ playing against us. So far, this is just one giant chess match."

She blew the stop at the end of the exit and took a right, hopping the curb when she took the following roundabout too quickly.

"It's ironic, isn't it? That the amount of shit you have to go through is in direct opposition to how much you just want peace and quiet? I'm done with excitement, I don't want it anymore. But I get it anyway, it follows me around, Darce."

" _Us_ ," she corrected. "It follows _us_ around, Jamie. I _volunteered_ for this, and don't you fucking forget it, you hear me? You ain't getting ridda me that easily, and if we're stuck in the mud, at least we're stuck together. Long as I can still jump your bones once in a while."

He burst out laughing.

Surprised, she followed suit.

And just like that, the tension eased, melting away in the cab of the Evoque.

"There you go again, using sexual innuendo to side-step your feelings," he teased, glancing back behind them.

"I know. I should see a SHIELD shrink," she threw back at him.

That hand on her knee crept up a little higher, then a little higher still, and higher still, and she squirmed. "I can read your face, you know. You don't fool me, with your dilated pupils," he murmured, suddenly there, in her ear, that voice low and husky, the one that turned her limbs to Jell-O. "Part of you _lives_ for this. But I can make you a promise: when we finally land, you can do whatever you want with me."

She shivered. "Well, that's incentive."

He chuckled. "You're not the only one that's getting itchy, Darce."

She nodded. "So, ditch the bad guys, get sex," she muttered, taking another right onto a quiet strip of highway, woods on either side. "Right. 10-4, Master Sergeant."

He set the creepy Skorpion in his lap. "Just don't call me that."

"Got it. Gotta come up with another name for ya."

He snorted, watching their pursuers in the side mirror. "Don't we have enough silly nicknames for each other?" He was particularly fond of 'Jamie'. No one in his life had ever called him that. As it was, only his mother had used his full name, and only when she'd been especially frustrated with him. To everyone else he was, inexplicably, 'Bucky', ever since he could remember, which was becoming clearer and clearer. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. For so long, it had all been lost to the fog in his mind, and now that shapes were becoming clearer in the distance, he wasn't sure he wanted to see it all in such acute detail as his advanced memory could supply. But to have Darcy call him some cute softening of the name he'd always found to be on the slightly strangling side, too formal, too straight-laced, was particularly refreshing. From the moment it had slipped accidentally from her mouth and she'd looked at him with apprehension, waiting for him to get annoyed, it had felt right.

She shook her head. "Nope. Besides, pet names are important."

He was silent, but she nearly jumped when he leaned over into her space and landed a kiss on her cheek. "Gas it, babe."

She sighed. "Yessir."

But that wasn't enough this time. It was a two lane highway, and with no traffic, and the wind working against them, the top-heavy Rover had a hard time outdistancing the lighter truck.

Bucky didn't even get an opening to start firing.

They didn't come under any fire either, which was telling in itself.

"Fuck," he growled, watching their rear.

"Why aren't they firing at us, Jamie?" she asked shakily, suspicious that she already knew the answer.

That grim tone was back in his voice again. "Because they want you alive."

She sighed again, heavily, frustrated. "Well, they can't _have_ me. I don't approve."

He smirked. "That makes two of us." He watched their pursuers at their rear, gaining distance, getting closer and closer, and he looked around, taking stock, doing the math in his head. "God _damn_ it," he muttered. "We haven't got many options here, doll."

But she trusted him blindly. "Just tell me what to do." She was even almost successful at covering the shaking in her voice.

He clenched his jaw and kept hoping for a curve in the road, a turn, a roundabout, some route by which they might perform some automotive hat trick.

But nothing came. It was Oklahoma after all, and they were out in the sticks now. Flat. Empty. No one for miles. There was nothing else for it. Keep the Rover for the metal protection it offered? Or go it on foot and maybe manage to pick a few of the bastards off?

Just then, there was a bang, loud and hollow in the cab of the SUV.

It sounded blood-chillingly familiar.

"What the hell was that?" Darcy asked, her brow screwed up in confusion.

He barely had time to react, his seatbelt gratefully giving way as he hit the release blind. "Darc—"

The car lurched and was thrown up in the air, the backend lifting up off the ground like a child's toy. Bucky threw himself across the cab as the SUV was blown off course, moving just fast enough to cage Darcy in with his left arm.

She gasped in his ear, but otherwise made no sound as the truck turned helplessly over, and landed on its own roof. The airbags burst out, Darcy's catching him in the back, and he punched the side-impact down with his fist. The momentum didn't stop there, though, and the truck skittered off the road surface, tipped, and slid down the embankment on the shoulder and rolled, once, twice, and into the ditch at the side of the highway.

Even bracing himself, Bucky's forehead lashed against the door, and it was hard enough that even he saw stars for a second. "Shit," he snarled under his breath as they finally came to a stop, wondering how the hell a totally unsuspecting Nick Fury had survived the impact of the very same weapon on the streets of DC.

At the time, Bucky thought grimly, the SHIELD director's evasion of him had rather pissed him off. Funny, how things changed on a dime, sometimes.

"Darcy?" God, even he was knocked breathless by that.

No answer.

His heart pounding, he couldn't stop his voice from rising and breaking in panic. " _Darcy_?! Talk to me!"

She was gasping for breath. "I'm fine. I'm fine, I think. I'm here."

Temporary relief flooded him and he loosened his iron grip. "Thank God." A God he wasn't too sure he believed in anymore, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

"What the fuck," she gasped. "What the _FUCK_ was that, JAMIE?!"

He swallowed thickly, trying to clear his tangled thoughts. "Mark 13. Magnetic Disc Grenade." Really cool weapon in its own, detached way—when it wasn't loosed on you, and you weren't aiming it at someone else.

The gasping was increasing. "I THOUGHT THEY WANTED ME _ALIVE_?! Now they're firing fucking _GRENADES_ at us?!" She was losing control.

He had to work to calm and soften his voice, disturbingly shaken by the whole thing. "They also know you're in here with me. Can you move, are you hurt?"

" _NO_ , I'm not _HURT_!"

He took a split second to take stock of their position. If he knew mercs like he thought he did, they'd stopped to watch the destruction and now would be approaching very slowly, wary of a surprise onslaught from him and from the truck having an adverse reaction to being spontaneously thrown around so unkindly. They had just a few precious seconds, what might amount to a mere minute within which to act. "Try and calm down, Darcy," he murmured. "I know that's a ridiculous thing to ask, but you've gotta try, okay? For me. Pretend this is just Loki's Destroyer." Yeah, Loki, the slightly mentally unstable, lash-y, angry Asgardian-slash-Frost Giant God creature he had no desire to actually meet face-to-face. Sure, him.

"THAT DOESN'T _HELP_ , JAMIE!"

He flinched, but ignored her. She usually settled down. She was quick on the uptake, and just as quick on the roll downhill, if he just gave her a second. It was a second they didn't have, granted, but…

Okay, they were pinned on the driver's side, and his passenger door was exposed, and manageable, if he'd lucked out. It didn't look to have taken any damage in the roll. He reached down, fumbling for Darcy's seatbelt, thankfully still strangling her, bodily, cradling her to the driver's seat, and pressed the release, catching her as she free fell into his arms. She stifled another gasp.

" _Jamie_ …"

"We gotta move, Darce."

"You can't just roll it, can you?" Her voice was brimming with unbridled fear.

"I could, but we don't have that kind of time, sweetheart—and I don't think this thing's engine is gonna turn over anymore anyway." It was no longer running, and was, in fact, ticking, beneath them, and Bucky didn't like the sound of it. "Hold onto me, okay?" He jockeyed his leg free and leveled a solid kick at the passenger door, satisfaction flooding him as it gave under his enhanced strength and burst clean off the truck with a grinding crack. "Come on."

She clung to his metal shoulder as he leveraged them out of the side of the downed SUV, very carefully edging his head past the new roof.

As expected, a bullet zinged past, and he ducked back in again, wincing.

"Oh, God, you're bleeding," Darcy murmured, her voice thin.

"It's from the crash. They didn't shoot me," he reassured her. "Just a flesh wound."

"Flesh wounds _kill_ people, they're not just a _Monty Python_ reference!" she snapped. "I am _way_ too young to be a widow, and black does absolutely _nothing_ for my figure, James Barnes!"

Holding his breath, he hurled himself out of the truck and around underneath it, barely missing more fire. "Damn it, someone over there's not half bad…"

She clambered out after him, drawing no fire.

He tugged the backpack out after them, and slung it over one shoulder, palming his Beretta and handing her the Skorpion. "Hold this for a second."

She blanched, staring down at the automatic in distaste, but traded with him quickly when he offered, the pack secured on both shoulders now.

"You good with the Beretta?"

She nodded. "It's smaller than your SIG."

"Packs a punch, don't forget the blowback. Can't afford to land on your little ass, okay?"

There was a short moment of camaraderie. "If you think my ass is little, you've been looking at the wrong one and we might have a problem."

He snorted. "Nope. Looking at the right one." He hauled her in front of him and shoved her unceremoniously past the trees that lined the lonely highway. "Now get that cute thing moving."

They crashed into the undergrowth, their pursuers hot on their trail, racing past the crashed British truck after their quarry.

Darcy clutched at Bucky's hand as he led the way under branches and around thick knots of trees, over all the molding detritus of a healthy forest. She was proud to say that she kept up with him easily—and she didn't think he was giving her much leeway. "They seriously think they can take _you_ on?" she gasped, glancing back.

He tugged harder. "Don't look back. And of course they can, Darcy, I'm not a God."

"No, you're the fucking _Winter Soldier_. You're a legend."

"And as you pointed out, I can still bleed, Darcy. They shoot me, I'll still die."

"But—"

"You remember me almost killing Steve, right? Twice? You remember how I almost killed someone that had almost the same serum I've got?"

She grumbled a complaint, but didn't reply.

The harsh echo of a gun blast burst in the forest and the birds in the trees fell ominously silent. A bullet winged by them, and Bucky ducked just enough, all instinct, as it zinged by his right bicep.

Another rapidly followed, this time on their left, and it clanked uselessly off his left elbow. He snorted. "They've seen too many movies. It isn't actually possible to curve a bullet," he said.

"Yeah, but James McAvoy sure was hot in _Wanted_ …" she offered breathlessly. "If you stay in front of me, they can't shoot you—not if they want me alive".

"I'm a bit taller than you, Darce."

As if on cue, another bullet zipped by, and he ducked again, cursing low under his breath. "Feel like I'm back in the trenches."

She swallowed against her dry throat. "Were those better or worse than they're portrayed in the movies?"

" _So_ much worse."

Admitted, they hadn't watched many war movies, as a rule. The closest they'd come was _Forrest Gump_.

A massive oak loomed just to the right of their path, and he paused, curling them around its trunk to fire off one round, two.

A rustle in the undergrowth a few yards back told them he'd gotten one of them.

"Nice one, babe," she murmured.

"Let's assume that pick-up had a quad axel and an extended cab. That's at least four mercs, maybe as many as six if they're small and willing to cram in. I doubt it, not with all their ammo. So let's go with four."

"Three, now."

"Presumably."

A dark slip of movement caught Darcy's eye and she raised the Beretta without thinking, firing off a shot and jerking as she righted herself against the trunk at the kickback.

There was a shout, but no accompanying sound of a body hitting the soft earth.

"Wounded him."

" _Damn_ it."

"Not bad," he encouraged, taking her hand again. "C'mon. They'll gain on us if we stay here."

They rushed back into the undergrowth, taking a random left, then a zigzag to throw them off. They ran for what felt like forever, and somewhere along the line, Bucky managed to fell a second one. That left two—assuming his instincts were on par.

They came to a massive knot of numerous trees, all gathered together in one lump of bark and growth, and paused.

"What?" she asked, catching her breath.

Bucky's brow furrowed.

"Don't you _dare_ split us up," she warned, reading his face.

"We're not splitting up, no," he began.

"Jamie—"

"But I need to draw them out. I can't eliminate them if we're too busy running, Darce."

She stared at him. " _Jamie_ —"

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently. " _Focus_. You know I've got to take them out, okay? You've got this. I want you to lay low right here. I'll just be a few minutes. You can manage that for a few minutes—you've proven that more than enough by now."

Her heart started galloping harder and she chewed on her lower lip. "Jamie—"

"I won't be long. I promise."

He didn't give her any time to argue. He dipped, pulling her up to his mouth and laid a good one on her, a kiss unlike any they'd shared in a solid week— _if that_ —and she mewled helplessly against his iron grip—

And he was gone, a small rustle the only indication he'd moved at all.

For a moment, she just stood there, a little whiplashed, and glanced around at the forest around her. It was primarily made up of deciduous trees, of varying amounts of growth, and there was no wind, it was so dense and thick in most places.

A leaf dropped to the ground at her side, and she jumped, wrapping her arms around her middle, her t-shirt suddenly too thin and chilly, even in the height of summer.

Another leaf dropped.

A bird twittered off to her left somewhere, and a chipmunk chirped in reply.

Taking a deep, centering breath, she crept around the knot of trees and huddled there, gun arm free and relaxed, feet sore in her sandals, ears open, eyes sharp on what had been their rear.

A gun blast went up, and she jumped, shutting her eyes for a moment in hopes that her husband had been on the delivering end of that blow, rather than the receiving end. There was no return fire, which told her whichever way it had gone, someone was dead—or at least down.

She swallowed. Of course it wasn't Jamie. Jamie was a God damned marksman, for fuck's sake. If there was one rule she'd learned to live by in the past year, no matter how he argued, it was that the Winter Soldier was hard to kill.

Another blast went up.

This time there was return fire, volleys back and forth, a firefight, and she shut her eyes again, clenching her jaw to keep the tears of fear and adrenaline at bay. She couldn't fall apart now, not now, not when he needed her firing on all pistons.

How the _fuck_ had this become her life? _How_?!

The only moment she could truly trace it back to was sitting in that coffee shop, texting Daniel to stop begging and leave her the fuck alone before Jane plopped herself down on the seat across from her, breathless and distracted as she introduced herself and asked her if she was still interested in the internship. And she'd said ' _yes'_.

She swallowed, hard, trying desperately to get a grip. She'd been in situations like this before, at least a handful now, and this afternoon from Hell was no different, strictly speaking.

"Darcy…"

She jumped.

Her name, just once, and in a sing-song sort of voice, two taunting notes. Dar-cy.

" _Darrrcyy_ …" It echoed cleanly through the trees.

She swallowed thickly, looking wildly around, her hand tightening around the Beretta, her palm slick with sweat.

"Oh, _Darrrrrcyyyy_ …"

Aldrich Killian.

Her heart kicked up anew, triple time, and she felt her extremities go cold and clammy.

"Come out, come out, little one." A cool chuckle. "That's all so cliché, isn't it? Darcy, dear? Where are you hiding?"

He sounded close. Too close, but she couldn't see him.

"Darcy, Darcy? All alone?"

God, her heart was actually going to burst out of her fucking chest, _Alien_ style. It was _painful_.

"Your Soldier can't have left you all alone, can he? _Awfully_ irresponsible of him."

Gritting her teeth, she pushed her voice up and out, forcing it to level out. "What the fuck do you want, Killian? You're such a sick fuck, just get on with it already," she called.

There was a rustle, and a thud, and a voice spoke from behind her, nearer the tree. "Alright then."

She jumped, sucking in a breath, and spun around to find him directly behind her, wearing that Stephen King movie grin.

"It's more fun if I pretend I haven't found you yet, dontcha think?"

She took two quick steps back, her right hand shaking, tightening still more around the gun.

"Running away was very naughty, Darcy, dear. That's against the rules."

All her instincts told her to shoot, but she couldn't manage to raise her firing arm, fear flooding every synapse.

So that was why Bucky had focused so much on separating action from reaction. She'd shoved the lesson to the back of her mind, but now it seemed so obvious, why he'd tried to teach her the ability to fight past the body's autonomic response.

He advanced on her, slowly. "We weren't finished yet, sweetheart. You needed some tweaking."

She swallowed again, mirroring him and stepping back, across the small clearing. " _Tweaking_? Is that the part where I do your bidding like a good little soldier?"

The shark-like grin widened as he continued his slow advance. "I had my heart set on just a few little extra additions, yeah." He shrugged. "This will have to do, I guess." He reached out for her shoulder.

She shrugged him off, eyeing the hand he had behind his back. "I don't get it. This whole game is fucked up, Killian. _How_ were you expecting me to do your bidding, exactly? You figure out the secret to immediate brainwashing or what? You do know it took HYDRA years to perfect their precious Winter Soldier, right?"

But he just smiled again, and stepped in close, closer, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek as he pinned her against the trunk at her back. "Darcy, _sweetheart_. You don't understand. And how _could_ you? I don't need to brainwash you. That's the whole point. All I needed was for you to survive long enough…"

He lowered his arm, revealing a night stick sort of device, black and all-too-familiar, that crackled in his grip.

"Survive for what?" Reacting on instinct, _finally_ , Darcy fired the Beretta, aiming for his face, but the kickback shot it in a wide, overheard arch, and she missed by a mile.

He snarled, grabbing at her face with one hand, and applying the prod to her belly—right where she'd been gutted just a few months prior.

There was just a split second of nothingness and Darcy almost smiled—the nerves there had been horribly damaged and the scar tissue was as good as numb and half-dead.

But then the pain bloomed tenfold and she squirmed, her body so slammed with a raw, tearing sensation that she couldn't even manage a noise of protest—

And just like that, it was gone.

He stepped back, staring at her, then down at the prod, then at her hands and the color of her eyes. He cocked his head.

Coughing desperately, she bent double, hands on knees, trying to catch her breath, her gaze on the Beretta, dropped, at her feet. Her brain told her to pick it up off the soil, but her hands didn't want to do its bidding.

"Hm," Killian said. "Yes, I thought that might be the case. Sometimes the Extremis takes its good-natured time. Have you experienced anything…odd…since your escape?"

She drew in a ragged breath. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she gasped.

He chuckled.

Again, there was a moment of inaction, like the slow-motion of a movie reel, and somewhere in her head, Darcy marveled at the idea that she was consciously aware of it, in the moment with it, watching everything flare, bullet time, before blooming into action.

Killian brought the prod down on her back, just there, where her spine bent, the other side of the nerve damage, the exit wound from last spring.

This time, there was no pause.

She screamed.

She couldn't stop it.

The ragged sound ripped out of her by the hinges, raw and thin. The electric current slammed through her, but the effect was so intense, there was no comical shaking and trembling—this was no taser.

But then it was gone again, and Killian had grabbed her by the collar of her t-shirt— _I Heart Hawaii_ —and had slammed her back up against the tree again. "You feel that? You feel that, Darcy? You can have that all the time, Darcy!" he gasped, his expression manic and deranged, his breath reeking of old wine. "You can have that power at your fingertips _all the time_! And you can harness it, you can _wield_ it! For the betterment of the world! We can help shape the next century, we can do it better than HYDRA ever did! You can help me! _You both can_! I can heal the sickness in mankind that makes us bent on destroying each other— _I just need your help_!"

Pain lancing hotly through her, she only had the energy to glare and spit viciously in his face.

It landed on his lip, and he flinched, his face slack in surprise.

" _Fuck_. _You_ ," she gasped, jerking until she'd torn free of his grip.

Surprised, he let her go.

She stumbled weakly, finally managing to snatch up Jamie's Beretta off the soft, summer soil and leaf litter. "I'm not doing your bidding in _this_ fucking reality or any other. I may still be stumbling around, looking for my place in all this, but you…" She finally managed to straighten up, clutching a pain in her side that felt like it was irradiated. "You can go and _fuck yourself_ , Aldrich. God knows, no one else wants to."

He turned to watch her, but again, no anger, just a smile, loose and relaxed, confident and full of humor. He shook his head, clucking his tongue like he was impressed. "It's true: he's taught you well. Including how to shoot—although, in all fairness, you did miss."

She ignored the dig. "He's taught me a lot of things; which is ironic," she gasped, still out of breath. "Because when we met, he barely even knew who he was."

He ambled his way back over to her again, and she mirrored him, using the circular shape of the clearing to her advantage. "You could've taken that a bit better, really. The Extremis is stubborn with some subjects, takes a while to take effect—although, again, to be fair, you've got a full dose of Zola's serum floating around in your blood as well. So it's up to fate, I suppose."

"That's right," she said, leveling the gun weakly at him. "You made me a freak. So you got what you wanted, after all."

And just like that, he was across the clearing to her, moving so quickly that Darcy was too weak to anticipate it. "That may be true—to an extent—let's just perform one most test, hm, just to be sure?" And the prod was pressing again to her belly.

She curled against it, her whole body tightening. A low cry escaped her throat. Her scar seemed to prickle with it, conducting the electricity like its own current, and it felt like her whole body flickered in reaction, the pain so intense, for a moment she nearly blacked out.

By some stroke of luck, she managed to squeeze the trigger on the Beretta, and fate had it that the nose of the handgun just so happened to be pointing at just the right angle.

The gun went off with a horrible thunder, and close quarters made Darcy's eardrums practically fucking bleed. The bullet caught Killian in the shoulder, throwing him back one step, two steps, three steps—

And the baton was gone, dropped from his grip as he hit his knees in the clearing, snarling in pain and anger.

But she didn't stop. She knew when she was outgunned, weapon or not, and she took off blindly for the surrounding woods, terror streaking through her and overpowering her basic logic, more so than any perilous situation she'd found herself in before.

Gasping and half limping against the pain in her side, she ran, feeling clumsy but likely faster than she'd ever been capable of moving before.

The woods were silent around her, as though the birds, the small mammals, even the trees were aware of her struggle.

She felt like a bull in a china shop, crashing loudly through the undergrowth, fear streaking tears down her face, but anger determining her stubbornness not to outright cry, panic lancing her feet forward—

Smack into a hard plane that drew her up short.

She cried out, that fear ratcheting up tenfold, and she struggled blindly against the grip around her upper arms. She felt around for the trigger on the Beretta but, just like that, it was wrenched from her hand and she was neatly disarmed.

She snarled, lashing out with her hands—

" _DARCY_!" Jamie shook her, roughly, his hands like vice grips around her upper arms.

She snapped to, staring him flat in the face. Just like that, there he was, with his arms around her and everything. The scrape on his forehead had closed and was just a smear of dried blood. His pupils were dilated and his hands were so steady around her arms that she was distantly sure he'd just killed one of their pursuers. Hadn't she read somewhere that snipers were always über calm after a kill? "I heard you scream—"

And the fight went out of her, the adrenaline making her a shaking and shivering mess before him. She gasped. "Killian…"

" _Are you alright_?! I've never heard you make a sound like that bef—"

She gestured vaguely. "Killian, he's…"

He stuck the Beretta in the back waistband of his shorts, all focus. "Killian's _here_?"

She gestured back the way she'd come. "He's…he's back there—he had some sort of cattle prod—I _shot_ him—I didn't shoot him very _well_ , but he's…he's…" She wasn't making any sense.

Surprisingly, he didn't insist on hunting him down, evidently figuring they stood a better chance continuing on course, and he tugged her along after him by one hand, all business.

She followed him dutifully, trying to find the communication point between her body and her brain, in the vague hope of reattaching her thought processes. She failed. It was really slow going in her nervous system so far. She idly wondered if something had been damaged, fried in the fight. Part of her body was certainly fried. Her belly and back were screaming in pain. She didn't make it very far. The pain was increasing with every step. "Jamie…" She swallowed. " _Jamie_ …"

He must've heard something in her voice, because he stopped, turning to look at her with sharp eyes. She almost jumped at the reminder of his alter ego. In moments like this, he slipped.

She slumped weakly against him, her head dropping to his shoulder. "Just gimme…one second… One second , just to catch my breath."

Looking back on it later, she couldn't have pinpointed exactly what instinct drove him, but he immediately tugged up on her t-shirt and all she heard was the sound of him sucking in his breath.

Then the ground was gone from beneath her and she was cradled, nice and warm, against his chest as he carried her along. It took her a shamefully long moment to solidify any coherent thoughts. "Jamie…I'll slow you down…I'll slow _us_ …down."

"You're light as a feather for someone like me. And besides, it doesn't matter," was all he said.

She squirmed weakly, but his arms tightened, blocking her assault. "Put me _down_ , Jamie. I'm _fine_."

"You're _not_ fine."

It was becoming clearer now. "But he'll catch up to us…"

"Then we'll go down together. Only way I wanna go down, anyway. So shut up."

She would've argued further, but the world closed around her like the end of a _Looney Tunes_ episode, a black circle descending and closing, little by little, until she was conscious no more.


	14. Chapter 14: Monster

**Chapter 14** **: Monster**

 **Summary:** **More adventures ensue and some theories are tested.**

 **Notes:** **Guys.** **Life is insane. Seriously. I have to apologize-again. I have no excuse, really, other than work being a total brute. We're implementing some changes and the public reaction has been so-so, and being one of a few to answer phones has made it a little on the crazy side, so much so that I get home, stare at the TV, then go to bed.** **Your comments on the last chapter were amazing. And with all this going on, I meant to reply to each of you personally. You know how it is. You check your email at your desk, smile, and figure that it's probably best you reply later, at home. Then something crops up. You think of it when you're half asleep. Tomorrow, then, first thing. Then the next day, and onward, until here we are, over a month later, and I feel like an ass.** **Thank you. For every comment and review. They are all wonderful, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten back sooner. Again. I adore that there are at least a handful of you out there that actually enjoy my fangirl ramblings, and seriously, if you have ideas or just want to chat, hit me up. I'd love to do a oneshot series with these two lovebirds.** **But. Rare weekend to myself, I am finally posting and getting back to you all. We're almost there, guys, the ending is in sight and I'm really hoping to narrow down the window between postings now, because I've got the finishing ideas in my head, I just need to type them all out, and in the correct order. That, and I've got an awesome idea for a Halloween fic I'd like to try, and then maybe add a couple little editions to my Dog and His Detective series.** **Anyway. This one is low on action and high on angst, I hope you're all okay with that. Oh, and a tiny bit of smut in this one, too, fair warning, I know you all HATE that. Wink. Let me know how you all like. I love you all!** **Chapter title taken from the song by Paramore, it works perfectly, go give it a listen. And I, unfortunately, do not own Marvel.**

 **((()))**

Guilt flickered somewhere in Tony's stomach, but he slapped it harshly back down again as he threw the switch in the cockpit, scowling at the instrument panel.

" _We're reading your position, Stark_ ," came Maria Hill's voice over the com from back home.

Tony ignored her.

Not speaking, Steve came in with the luggage, Bucky's blue and black carryon and Darcy's rolling white leather case clacking along behind him up the ramp.

Tony got up, met him at the back and took the handle of Darcy's bag out of Steve's grip, carefully sliding it shut and lifting it into the compartment.

"Tony…" Steve started, then stopped. This had been going on for the past nearly two weeks. They'd spent every effort trying to strip the beach house of all evidence there'd been a struggle, packing up things, taking samples, salvaging any furniture that wasn't somehow completely ruined, taking pictures, trying to piece together what had happened with the information Natasha had already provided. She hadn't made further contact, and Steve's calls had gone unanswered. Tony quietly obsessed over security footage, anything to try and track his old nemesis.

And he retreated into himself little by little with each passing day.

Now he was silent, his face a stony mask.

For a long moment, Steve stood there, feeling a bit lost, worry for Darcy and Bucky—but primarily Darcy—warring in his gut with his homesickness for Natasha.

He _hated_ this, he hated _everything_ about it.

They were all supposed to be a _team_. Things like this weren't supposed to happen. They were _all_ supposed to be safe _all the time_ , armored specifically for fighting things like this, interwoven with each other, getting along seamlessly.

But that wasn't human nature. He _knew_ that. Steve was a lot of things, but naïve wasn't really one of them, despite the air he knew gave off.

It certainly wasn't the nature of people like these, people with extraordinary talent and ability, people who'd come up with chips on their shoulders and complexes like _monoliths_.

Maybe he _was_ naïve.

Sighing, he stowed Bucky's things in the compartment beside Darcy's and shut the cabinet.

"Finished the hard sweep," Clint Barton spoke from behind him, halfway up the ramp, tapping away at a tablet in his hand and frowning. Sam came up behind him, frowning in concentration.

Steve nodded. Even Clint and Sam had come out for this, right away, practically volunteered, only serving to confirm to Steve that they each had a soft spot for Darcy, at the very least. You could never be sure of things with Clint; that was how he was: quietly understanding, silently supportive. If anyone was in a position to understand someone as complicated as Bucky had become, after all, it was Clint Barton.

He stood there, all in his black tactical gear, gun strapped into his thigh holster, gesturing to another agent on the ground. "No, batten down the hatches, no one's getting in here. It's been _days_ of this, this is our final run." The agent nodded. Clint snapped his fingers, stopping him before he began away. "And make sure you make contact with the staff. Two women—names are in the dossier—make sure they know not to come around, but make sure you confirm all threats have been neutralized. FYI, you might find 'em in a state. Sam, could you help him out with that?

Sam nodded and silently followed the agent, gesturing to him.

Clint turned back to study Tony, who was busily stowing something else, his back to them. "Finished with the basics, Stark. You want us to do one more sweep for wetworks?"

" _Is that really necessary_?"

Everyone paused, eyes snapping to the speaker on the control panel, where Hill's voice came through, the line still open.

Tony, eyes sliding shut in just the barest sign of pressure, clenched his jaw, and moved on. "Yeah, Barton. The carpet in particular. One more time."

Clint nodded. "Got it."

" _I mean, I just wonder if we're putting all our resources on this_ ," Hill continued, oblivious as usual. " _Surely the Winter Soldier doesn't take an entire tac team_ —"

" _Already walking away, Hill_ ," Clint called, his voice just a little bit too hard to be called _friendly_. " _You're breaking up_."

A pause.

Steve tried again. "Tony—"

" _I'm just saying, we have an entire file on a terrorist in Cuba that we really should look into_ ," Hill began again. " _There's evidence he may have some Chitauri technolo_ —"

Patience snapping, Tony went over to the cockpit silently, and slapped his palm down on the disconnect button, severing contact with home base. " _Unbelievable_ ," he muttered under his breath, leaning there for a moment, head bowed.

Third time was a charm.

"Tony…I'm sorry," Steve muttered, again. He'd lost count how many times he'd said it. "Again."

There was silence for a long moment.

"I know," Tony murmured, surprisingly vulnerable sounding. "I _know_ , Rogers."

"I—"

"You were just doing your thing, your… _greater good_ thing…And your wife is out there, _for Christ's sake_. I _know_ , alright? I get it. I'm over it."

Awkward at this speech and unsure how to process it, Steve just blinked and nodded.

"We should've had contact by now," Stark said, looking up at him, finally making eye contact. "Shouldn't we have had contact by now?"

Steve sighed, pulling a hand through his hair and down his face tiredly. He hadn't slept in—God, how long had it been since he'd _slept_? _Too_ long, if Tony's face was any indication. The inventor's eyes were red, his pallor pale and haggard, his normally meticulously trimmed goatee in need of a shave. "You _know_ how Bucky is. He knows how to lay low. He knows how to disappear, he's a—"

" _Ghost_ , yeah, I know," Tony snapped. "He's a _fucking poltergeist_." He slumped, boneless, down into the pilot's chair. " _Aldrich Killian_. You want a ghost, there you go."

Steve followed him and threw himself into the co-pilot's seat. "Yeah. I know."

Tony shook his head. "This is _my_ fault."

Steve smirked. "Don't start that. Darcy hears you, she'll cream you in the face. She's constantly threatening to sock Buck and I in the head, with our so-called, ' _Masochistic tendencies toward self-loathing'_."

Tony snorted, but it was empty and humorless. "This was _my_ idea, Rogers. They had it all worked out and I butted in, like I usually do, _blundering_ around—"

"Tony, they would've tracked them down no matter where they went. I'm sure there was some sort of intel getting passed around. They just had to wait for their in. They would've had it either way."

"And Short Stack's still not a hundred percent—"

"She's _tough_. You know that."

"But _I killed Killian, Rogers_! Pep and I—he was supposed to _stay dead_!" he snapped. "That was my fault, too—I was a colossal _asshole_ to the guy and it drove him crazy and now here we are! He's _not_ dead and he's turning his crazy on _my girl_!" He slammed his fist against the dash and the screen flickered.

Steve sighed. "…This is hitting you twice as hard because you didn't expect it," he murmured. "That's what's going on here, isn't it?"

Tony stared at him, face open.

"You never expected her, did you? You never expected her to…do this to you?"

Melting under the pressure, Tony slumped over, elbows on knees and face in his hands. " _God damn it, Rogers_."

Watching him sadly, Steve didn't know what else to say. There was nothing else to say. So he set his hand on the inventor's shoulder. "Yeah. I know, Tony. I know."

((()))

"God _damn_ it, Barnes…"

"Just try and lie still…"

Darcy hissed in pain, squirming under just the lightest touch of Bucky's human hand. " _Mmm_ …" she hummed, her brows drawn together in discomfort.

"What did you say it looked like?" he asked, his fingers feathering over the nasty red hive-like pattern on her belly, like little caterpillars of electrical current had burrowed through her skin and then exited like lightning strikes in various places.

She bit her lip against the sharply aching sensation. "Like a cop's nightstick. It was all black."

He nodded. Definitely a copy of one of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team's fun little toys. Frowning as he leaned over her, he studied the wound. The edges were open and weeping, the skin beneath raw, angry, and pink. It looked vaguely like it wasn't finished just yet. He clucked his tongue. "Can you sit up?"

She held out her hands, wincing.

He took them and hauled her up.

She flinched against the movement, but managed it.

He didn't ask her to twist, but instead went around to the head of the bed and knelt behind her, studying the similar wound along her skin, but bit off the gasp before it could escape.

It was clear that the electrified prod hadn't been applied to her back for as long a time as it had her belly, but it was also clear that it hadn't been necessary.

The wound was similar, yes, red and raw.

But beneath her skin, her veins were dark, a purple blue-black spider web, slowly branching all along her torso as he watched. Her spine was visible through her skin, and when he went around her again, he found her front was rapidly following suit, the pattern spreading upward from her scar, outlining her ribcage and her sternum, the mechanisms pulsing with each thrum of her heart. Icy fear lancing through him, he swallowed and managed to push his voice smooth and unconcerned as he went around her again to hide his face. "How do you feel?"

" _Awful_ ," she croaked, leaning on one arm.

Obviously, Killian had wielded his toy in order to facilitate whatever change was going on in her, perhaps to speed it along under the assumption that sometimes the process needed help or didn't work.

Clearly, _something_ was working in her. Was the serum fighting off the Extremis, or vice-versa? Or were they—he swallowed—finding a way to work together?

He pulled a hand down his face, his heart racing, that old feeling returning. He'd felt it so many times before, always staring Pierce in the face, or his handlers before him, always in response to some barked order in Russian, or the sound of that _machine_ …Blind panic. Icy fear, the sort of fear that paralyzed you. Utter and complete helplessness, rapidly followed by despairing acceptance.

"You're too quiet, Jamie," came her soft voice then, a little calmer. "What's the damage?"

He cringed. Lie, and she would know; she'd hear it in his voice. The tells he'd worked so hard to avoid shown through with her and her only. "Um…I'm not…sure."

With effort, she stood, waving off his offer of help and hobbled weakly into the bathroom of their motel room. This one was the nicest and cleanest one yet. It had taken him only a few minutes to reach the road earlier, Darcy unconscious in his arms. The walk back down the highway to the exit point, and the roundabout hadn't taken particularly long either, though he'd gotten a few strange looks and one offer of help that he'd calmly rebuffed, his gun hand twitching toward his weapon all the while.

Finally, a truck stop type of place had appeared over the hill and he'd had a devil of a time getting the clerk in the office to calm down when he lied that his wife had merely fallen ill and that an ambulance was the _last_ thing they needed. He just considered himself lucky no one had questioned the aspect of whether or not she was really his wife.

She'd woken not long after in a haze of confusion and pain and it had taken her a good half hour to calm down enough for him to peel off her t-shirt and get a good look at the damage.

She gasped now as she stared at her reflection, her fingers tracing the air over the wound shakily. "What the… _fuck_ …?"

Bucky followed her in, eyeing her swaying form with trepidation.

But she only continued to stare, wide-eyed, arms folded to hold up the hem of her beach t-shirt, her shorts low on her flared hips. When she turned to take in her back, she let out a squawk of surprise and her mouth dropped open. "All _this_ from a _cattle prod_?!"

He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I…don't think that was the intention."

Her face contorted with nervous terror. "I don't wanna be a creepy, fire briquette super soldier, Jamie. I don't wanna end up on Tony's table, Jamie, _I know how hard that was for Pepper, Jamie!_ I DON'T WANNA BLOW UP ALL OVER THE SIDE OF SOME BUILDING AND LEAVE A _FUCKING_ _NUCLEAR SHADOW THERE_!" Her voice rose higher and higher before breaking entirely.

He raised his hands toward her in an empty effort to calm her. "I—I know. I _know_ , Darcy. I know."

Breathless, she turned back to the mirror to stare at herself in the glass, her eyes wide. " _What the fuck is happening to me_?!"

He let out a long, shaking breath, but when he spoke, his voice wobbled rebelliously. "I…I don't know, Darce." He cleared his throat and swallowed it down.

She spun to look at him, her eyes wide as saucers, and he knew she could see the anguish there that he couldn't manage to stuff out of sight.

"I don't know."

They stood there, facing each other, Darcy's eyes round and fearful as she stared up into his anxious face. She always talked about how he always seemed to know what to say. He always argued that most of the time he felt like he was feeling his way along in the dark, blindly tracing walls with his fingertips. This time, it couldn't have been truer. He didn't have any words for this. And what was worse, he couldn't even offer her physical comfort, couldn't even wrap her in his arms and offer warmth and stability, when the mere act of brushing her skin caused her such severe pain. He stuffed his hands in his pockets for something to do with them. So he said the only thing that came to mind. "…I…I'm…" He struggled. "I'm…I'm _here_ , Darcy. _I'm here_. I'm not going _anywhere_."

Her eyes lingered on his for a long moment, like she'd heard it before and wasn't sure she believed him.

And his heart broke. "I would _never_ have given you a vow I had no intention of keeping. I'm here."

" _Don't leave me_ ," she whispered, so quietly, her hushed words would never have been audible to a normal person, her face a mask of fear and shock.

So he slid closer to her and leaned forward to tip his forehead into hers. "I won't," he whispered. "I won't."

((()))

Changes followed after that. _Real_ changes.

They followed rapidly, like a line of dominoes, neatly set up and stacked beside each other in a neat, cute little spiral pattern, twisting tighter and tighter inward until there was nowhere left to tip.

The first few nights she woke from night terrors so vivid it took Bucky an hour to calm her. The pain in her body ratcheted up, up, up, until she was crying from the intensity of it, and it happened at strange, incomprehensible intervals, and at no warning whatsoever, dropping off to nothing just as quickly.

The dark shadows of her veins faded to nothing and her skin grew entirely opaque once more, but the pain lingered like a rash, her skin tight and hot, a mere brush of fingertips an awful caress of agony.

Her temperature fluctuated, too much to be considered normal, and she'd shiver in the motel room bath, even with the water scalding hot. Bucky found her there one afternoon after going out for supplies and immediately dragged her out, despite her protests, for fear of her causing permanent damage. A quick, hot shower for him was one thing, but for her to cook herself in it was another. Conversely, she'd have to throw all her covers off in the middle of the night, covered in slick sweat and desperate for him to pin her down.

He gently— _painfully_ —refused.

He fretted that something was legitimately wrong with her, that this was something else entirely and he began pondering how he could steal her into an ER, _terrified_ he was assuming the wrong thing.

But when she started breaking things accidentally, he knew.

He felt it, in his bones.

The remote, when she threw it at him in a moment of relaxed flirtation, shattered as it bounced off his back much too hard and hit the floor.

The mirrored bathroom medicine cabinet on the wall came off one hinge when she pulled it open.

She struggled against him during a nightmare one night and left a _bruise_ —very shallow and pale—but a bruise nonetheless.

This went on for nearly a week, when—just as Bucky was putting together plans for getting them back on the road—they inexplicably stopped altogether.

She yanked on the bathroom doorknob and nothing happened.

She punched him in the shoulder and, though it felt much more solid than it ever had before, it left no bruise under his skin. Her body was visibly tighter than it had been this time, more so than after her initial reaction to the HYDRA serum. Her belly firmed, her hips sloughed off the outer layer of curves, her thighs weren't as thick as before. She was still his vintage pinup girl, but slightly more on the ' _appeared capable of doing damage_ ' side than before.

The pain washed away, as though down the drain during a shower.

The temperature flashes eased and disappeared.

She stared at herself in the mirror, frowning as he packed behind her, taking stock of all the small things they'd left lying about and neatly arranging them back in the small duffel he'd used to replace the backpack, which had come out of their backwoods adventure a little worse for wear.

"What the _actual_ fuck?" she scolded at her reflection. "I mean, _seriously_ —how is _this_ my life?"

Bucky snorted.

" _Jesus Christ_ , you know something's wonky when the fact that I married a super soldier assassin from World War _fucking_ Two is the _least_ strange thing that's happened in the past six months."

"Not as wonky as the fact that you don't regret it," he muttered under his breath.

But she heard him, and turned to narrow her eyes at him. "What was that, Jamie dear?"

He shrugged, widening his eyes innocently. "Oh, nothing."

She fixed him with a sharp look. "That's what I thought." She sighed. "Leaving again?"

He nodded, turning to sit down on the end of the bed, letting it bounce underneath his momentum. "We can't stop. We've already lingered too long here. How you feel?"

She meandered across the room, turning her back on the mirror. "Different."

He nodded. "Different, _how_ , exactly?"

She scrunched up her eyebrows. "I'm…not su—"

"This is the hard part, yeah," he interrupted her, nodding again. "Try and put it to words."

She chewed on her lip, reaching him and crawling into his lap, straddling him on the end of the bed and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Unbreakable."

He nodded. "And?"

"Strong and fast. Powerful."

"Anything else?"

She kissed him, hard, pressing herself as tightly as she could against him, delving into his mouth with her tongue, daring him.

"Mm…" he hummed, his arms tightening around her, his hands sliding up her back, then running back down again.

She broke away to take a breath. "You're not gonna argue?"

His eyes were dark, his pupils blown, devouring his blue irises completely as he stretched up to kiss her again. "Hm-mm."

She smiled against his mouth, slanting her lips across his at such a sharp angle his scruff caught her teeth.

He slid those hands down, and down again, still further until they were wrapped around her ass, and he pressed her into him, urging her to grind down against him.

A low moan vibrated in her throat, a pleased purr as she slid her hands down his chest, searching out the hem of his t-shirt.

His fingers slid beneath the bottom of hers and up her back, catching up softly on her scars. As he traced the new edges of it, a rapid, hot sensation shattered through her, outward from her core, tightening everything so severely she cried out, breaking away from his mouth.

He pulled back, looking at her with those dark eyes. "What?"

But she only shook her head. "Nothing." She pressed more firmly against him, pushing on his chest, pulling his t-shirt over his head as he fell back on the bed, smiling.

Laughing, they clawed the covers on the bed back again and slipped off what remained of their clothing.

"We got this part of the honeymoon right, at least," he murmured as they tangled together, her thighs draped over his hips.

She sighed, trailing a path of kisses along his shoulder. "Nearly right."

He cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

She looked down at him with impatient hunger as she slid to straddle his hips. "Don't be so gentle with me this time," she whispered.

He frowned, clearly confused. "Darcy…" The callused pads of his human right hand trailed along the scarring tissue at her back again.

She gasped, biting her lip.

He zeroed in on her reaction and a brow slowly rose as he put the pieces together. "Ah. Another little side effect, hm?"

Making a noise of annoyance, she slid herself down around him, her body arching stiffly as he filled her.

He smiled, so relaxed, in no rush.

But she wanted a rush; she wanted a mad dash; she wanted him to forget himself for just a few stolen moments and feel the heady pressure of blind need. She struck a palm to his chest. "I'm _serious_. I promise I'll cry foul if it's too much. I wanna test the edges of this… _thing_ …" She knew it was a weak argument.

But he didn't laugh. He just frowned at her, the wheels in his head turning, always turning, they never stopped turning, the _poor bastard_.

He sat up, calmly and deliberately, moving slowly. Very gently, he moved her off of him entirely, lifting her off his lap. He spent a long, long moment just looking at her with those dark, hungry eyes. The message in them hadn't changed. Finally he reached out to gather the hair off her shoulders and neck and wrapped the tail around his hand before letting it drop over her shoulder and sweep in a curtain down her back.

And he kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle kiss; it spoke volumes as to what he'd been holding tight in the reins.

She gasped, but the action was stifled against his mouth.

And just like that, she was flipped beneath him, barely any warning before he slid smoothly along her calf, between her legs and into her in one fluid motion, nothing violent, but not particularly easy either.

She gave a sound of surprise that was somewhere between a gasp and a shout, but that was lost, too, as he kissed her again.

She wasn't really sure what she'd been expecting, but whatever it was, this was more— _much_ more.

He was _intense_.

Much more intense than she'd ever known him to be in bed before, but in a good way, a deep sort of desperate way, his affection perfectly telegraphed in every move he made.

He wasn't particularly gentle; nor was he violently rough. He certainly didn't wait for her to catch up, and his hips kept time with her heartbeat, slowly easing into the rapid rhythm of his until they were breathing the same breath at the same junction.

One problem: the angle was wrong. _Totally_ wrong.

She gripped his arms, her right slip sliding down the vibranium, which had warmed against her skin. She still couldn't figure how it kept such a separate temperature from the rest of him if it was so connected as to obey the commands of his nerves, but that hardly mattered now.

The whole event lasted much longer than she expected it to, although looking back, should she have been surprised, sleeping with a super solider who was designed to go, go, go like the fucking _Energizer Bunny_?

"Jamie," she panted, unable to keep from clawing at his back.

He responded with a kiss, his human hand wrapping tightly around the back of her knee and drawing it more tightly up, over his hip, as if he knew. He probably did.

She gasped, the sound echoing in the room as the angle lit her up like a flare.

He murmured something low, something not in English, his mouth trailing a deliberate line along her shoulder and up her throat, just _almost_ …

She hummed a low moan as his lips closed over her pulse and sucked, sharpening the tightness in her core so hard that it became painful.

He growled at this apparently preferred response and slowed his rhythm just barely, drawing it out, his hand sliding up to clasp her hip tight—it would've been too tight had she not just been shot up with some unknowable solution that had strengthened her anatomy.

She mewled against his mouth as he moved to kiss her, the angle turning until he was settled right there, _right there_ , right where she needed him, and a few places that she was pretty sure hadn't ever been found before, and _oh God, don't move, that's the spot, right there, right fucking there_ —

She gasped.

So did he.

A desperate cry escaped her throat at the intensity of the orgasm, the tightness uncoiling so slowly she thought for a second she might scream.

He positively snarled against her throat, increasing the pounding rhythm of his hips, once, twice, three times—

He tensed.

She knew she looked like the awful cover of some romance novel, but the arcing of her back and her neck along the pillow was something involuntary that she couldn't control.

The world shrank down to a fine point, a vacuum seal surrounding only them, right there, in a little pocket world that existed only for him, and her, and his body, and this feeling, this desperate _something_ that was so full of sensation it was impossible to name, some intersection of lust and love and need and want, and trust and promise—

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she gasped, consciously removing her nails from his shoulder blades. " _Jesus Christ_."

He kissed a trail down her throat and gently extricated himself, sliding down her body until he was right where he'd been the last time they'd managed an interlude in an actual bed. He was breathing harder than she'd ever heard him breathe before, the super soldier capable of running circles around most people, and he pressed his face against the dewy skin of her belly, his mouth threateningly close to that sensitive new scar tissue. "Are you alright?" he rasped, his voice hoarse.

She snorted, running her fingers through her hair and combing the damp strands off her shoulders and away. " _Alright_? You _felt_ all that, right?"

He smiled. It was a tired smile, which was something he didn't often look: tired. He was designed _not_ to get tired, _specifically_. It always made her feel strangely sad when he finally succumbed to his exhaustion.

The ruins of his mind and his memory.

She reached out to run her fingers over his features. "That the best you got, Soldier Boy?"

He surprised her and laughed, a brow chinking up. "Give me five and we'll find out."

((()))

Dreams came to her. No, not _dreams_ …

"So, Stark, if you want to, uh, have that part ready for tomorrow, that would be _awesome_ ," Jane said, leafing through design sketches in the middle of the room. "Since you stole my clerk and all," she teased, winking at Darcy.

She stared up from her work station. " _Hey_! I stopped by just this morning! I asked if you needed me to handle anything from in here, remember?!"

Jane grinned, setting the papers down on Tony's desk. "I'm joking, Darcy."

"Yeah, if you wanna blame anybody for Grand Theft, he's sitting right here," Tony piped up, clicking his mouse and adjusting the 3-D view of the design he was working on. "This what you had in mind?"

Jane went around the inventor's desk and leaned over his shoulder. "Yeah. Oh, wow, that's _perfect_!"

Tony grinned. "Yeah, imagine all the time you wasted, hot gluing all your little doodads together all those years."

Jane rolled her eyes. "I didn't _hot glue_ them." She ambled across the room and set a few more sheets of paper on the corner of her former intern's desk. "Would you be able to find time to run some of these simulations for me and just print off the numbers at some point today?"

" _Hey_!" Stark grunted, continuing the game. "That's _my_ Administrative Specialist and she makes _way_ more than some Clerk Typist, so take your _damn dirty paws off her_!"

Darcy snorted. "Enough with the _Planet of the Apes_ references! I can probably squeeze them in, sure."

Jane nodded. "That would be awesome. Ian was surprisingly useful when he was arou…" She drifted off, her expression going blank on Darcy's workspace.

Darcy blinked, watching her with her eyebrows raised. "What?"

Tony clucked his tongue. "Here we go."

Jane blinked.

Darcy began sifting through the paperwork on her desk. "What? Did you mess up an equation or something? You know I can't read this shit, it looks like Ancient Egyptian Coptic to me—"

"What's on your hand?"

Darcy paused, still blinking, only halfway through the Starbucks Doubleshot she'd grabbed that morning, and one for Tony, on her brisk walk to the corner coffee house, hanging onto Bucky's offered elbow, and tucking her cold hand against his warmth. "What do you mean?"

"Here we _go-o_ ," Tony repeated, sing-song. It didn't sound as cheerful as a sing-song usually did.

"Is that, um…a ring?"

Now Darcy froze, heart sprinting ahead in her chest, and curled the fingers of her left hand against her palm, far, far too late, and much too uselessly. The engagement ring on her finger suddenly felt just as heavy as three carats ought to.

Jane's mouth tightened and she got her voice under her this time. "Darcy, is that a _ring_ on your hand?"

For a long moment there was icy silence, only broken by the soft sound of the 3-D printer working in the corner, behind its glass case. Darcy's cheeks flared, then paled, her expression sifting first through guilt, then embarrassment, then finally settling on calm, if a little, tiny bit defiant. Her voice came out even and natural. "Yes."

"Good girl," Tony quietly said from his desk.

Darcy looked over at him. "The game's up."

He nodded very sharply, not looking up from his monitor, but his glasses didn't hide the sympathy in his eyes. "It most certainly is, Short Stack."

Jane scoffed, turning to give him a haughty glance. "You've got to be kidding me."

Darcy reached up to run a hand tiredly down her face and grabbed her coffee with the other. "No, Jane. No one is kidding. Now, I've got a shit ton of work to do, and Tony's only gonna do more today. So do you mind?"

Jane stared, eyes wide. " _Mind_?! Of _course_ I mind! Darcy, _of course I mind_ , are you _kidding_ me right no—"

"You already said that," Stark spoke up, clearly taking a side in the argument.

Jane stared at them both separately for a moment, stricken silent. "I don't _believe_ this," she finally said, what seemed like mostly to herself.

"Don't believe what—that someone might love your weird intern?"

"Nothing that hard to believe, what with your advanced degree, there, Foster," Tony backed her up.

Jane ignored him. "You're _engaged_?"

Darcy took a deep, deep breath. "That's usually what a ring signifies when it's placed on the left ring finger—they call it the _Ring Finger_ , for fuck's sake."

"To Bucky? You're _engaged_ to _Bucky_?"

"Well, I certainly didn't have mind-blowing sex with Thor last night," Darcy replied flippantly.

Jane flinched.

Tony chuckled from across the room.

For another moment, Jane opened and closed her mouth once, twice, three times.

Darcy sighed. "Why don't you just say what you wanna say so then I can nod, like I usually do, and say something snarky in reply, and then you can leave and we can all get on with this long-ass morning and I can get my work done in as much peace and quiet as Stark will let me have?" she suggested.

"Probably won't be much. I'm stripping Drone 13 again," Tony piped up.

Darcy slumped. "Not _again_! God, that thing is _shit_. Did you use recycled parts on that one or what?"

Tony shrugged. " _There are always ghosts in the machine_ ," he snickered.

Darcy grinned. "Should watch that tonight! _I, Robot_ , our place—you bringing the pizza?!"

Jane flapped her arms. "Are we seriously all going to pretend this conversation isn't happening right now?" she snapped.

"There _is_ no conversation to _have_ , Jane-y. Your twenty-eight-year-old former intern said ' _yes'_ to her boyfriend's proposal last night and then slept really, really well—not that this coffee is helping with this awful morning…"

Jane sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Bucky _proposed_."

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Again— _yes_. On both knees, it was _seriously_ romantic, and you know I hate that shit."

"Bucky proposed and you accepted. _Marriage_? That was explicitly stated?"

Tony cocked his head. "Did it need to be? I feel like that's implied…?"

"You're going to _marry_ him? You're going to marry a former _Soviet assassin_ who's probably still brainwashed on some level and is almost certainly dangerous to you on many others and capable of killing you with one hand, the other tied behind his back? You're _marrying_ him?"

Darcy leaned forward and let her forehead hit the cool counter of her steel desk. "Yes, Jane. Yes to it all. So, we've established that there will be a wedding taking place sometime in the future. Are we moving on yet?"

Jane shrugged. "I just can't believe you'd be that _stupid_. I guess I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it."

"We never would've guessed," Tony drawled.

"If you keep calling me _stupid_ we're gonna have a problem. I did not work my ass off for a Master's in Poli-Sci so you could call me _stupid_. Also, later, when Jamie finally gets outta me what's wrong and I have to tell him, you're gonna have a problem with him, too."

"Don't forget me," Tony interjected grimly. "She's _already_ got a problem with me."

"Jamie has _never once hurt me_." She said it with as much hard insistence as she could manage. "Seriously— _never_. Not _once_. Not even that time a few months ago when I snuck up on him when he had a monster migraine and he grabbed me around the throat."

Jane squawked. "He _grabbed you around the_ —"

"And immediately let me go! And apologized _profusely_ all night and fretted that he'd done some sort of damage and just about broke up with me so it couldn't happen again and I told him to _shut the fuck up_!"

Jane visibly fumed.

" _Never_ , Jane. Not _once_ has he hurt me. I trust him with my life. If he was going to lose his shit and shank me, it was going to happen the first few nights we spent together—and it was certainly, logically going to happen during sex, I mean, just think about it—and not only did I survive with all my limbs intact, but if it'll shut you up, I'll tell you that I had _the best orgasm_ I have ever had in my _entire_ life on top of it! So can we _PLEASE_ move on?!"

Jane pounced. "So that's what this is about? The danger? The _sex_?"

Groaning again, Darcy let her head thunk back down on her desk. "Ugh, I give up."

"You're two steps from being kicked outta my lab, Foster," Tony threatened, his voice dipping a shade lower than he usually used.

"I just don't understand the appeal here for you. Is it about the rebellion?"

Darcy snorted. "What am I— _sixteen_?"

"Then _what_?"

"What about this is so hard, Jane-y? Seriously. This happened organically, just like any other relationship on the face of the fucking earth. I said ' _hi'_. He said ' _stay away from me, I'll only hurt you_ '. I told him that was a load of crap. He laughed. I laughed. We had a conversation. Then we had another conversation. I was the only conversation he got for a while, which is all sorts of fucked up, but we'll shelve that for later."

Jane sighed.

"I flirted. He resisted. I flirted harder. He folded and asked me out. We went out. Then we went out again. Then we were chased across Manhattan on New Year's Eve by Russian hitmen. Then I moved in. Then he proposed. Pretty straightforward."

"Except for the fact that he's still a _Soviet assassin_ ," Jane added.

Darcy stood, body posture tightening in a clear signal that she'd had enough. "Jane. _I'm marrying him_. Get that through your thick astrophysicist head, the easy way or the hard way, it doesn't matter to me. If you're gonna go all Jacob Black on me, you should know that the answer is still the same: if you make me choose, it'll be _him_. Any more questions?"

Jane squared off, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yeah, just one. Who are you leaving your things to in your will?"

Darcy crossed the room, widened the door to the lab and glared. " _Fuck. You_."

Jane stared, face open in shock.

"Now _get out_."

The memory folded in on itself in the deep dark of the room, and Darcy came to just enough to feel Jamie shifting down the bed, his head landing on her belly, his soft hair soothing a path across her hip, and his arms sliding around her narrow waist.

Then she was pulled back under into another remnant…

"I'm at your door," Natasha's voice spoke into Darcy's Starkphone.

Darcy, laughing, crossed to the door to their suite and pulled it open, revealing the Black Widow there in the hallway, in black leggings, a Def Leppard t-shirt, a black leather Ike jacket, ankle boots, and her own phone pressed to her ear.

Grinning, they both hung up at the same time and Natasha came all the way in.

Darcy shut the door behind her. "The vodka is still in the freezer if you wanna get started."

Natasha waved a hand. "We've got time. Right?"

"Jamie's downstairs. Clint and Sam wanted some extra sparring time and he's the only other unbreakable partner they can share if Steve's not around."

Natasha smirked. "Yeah, he and Hill shouldn't be long. They just wanted to check the lead on some S.T.R.I.K.E. team stragglers. They got some new intel out of Rumlow last week."

Darcy nodded. "I heard scuttlebutt, yeah."

Natasha threw herself down on the couch and slid off her boots. "Well? Let me see the damage."

Blushing, Darcy sat down next to her and held out her left hand.

Natasha took it up in both of hers and held it up, studying it as it caught the light from the sunset blazing in the floor to ceiling windows. The diamond sparkled like it was part of a jewelry commercial. She whistled low. "Steve would say, ' _he done good'_."

Darcy snorted. "Jane thought it looked ridiculous."

Natasha gave her a wry look. "Foster _would_ think so."

Darcy took her hand back, settling into the couch gingerly.

Natasha narrowed her eyes and studied her. "Foster. Something's bothering you. You have it out again?"

Darcy sighed, getting up again restlessly to cross to the kitchen. "Of course. She came to the lab this morning to bug Tony, but no matter how he tried to keep her distracted, she still noticed it. Flipped her fucking lid." She pulled open the fridge and selected a pink moscato.

"You think this is just jealousy?"

Darcy sighed and shook her head as she pulled out a stem-less wine glass and filled it halfway. "You mean with Thor being _Thor_?"

Natasha got up and followed her, filling another glass before putting the bottle away for her. "Well, yeah. I mean, Thor isn't about to propose something as serious as marriage, is he?"

Darcy shrugged. "Odin hates mortals. Thinks we're sheep, apparently. Or goats—whatever. Either way, Thor's gotta go home at some point, and I doubt he'd be allowed to take Jane with him a second time."

" _Ergo_ …" Natasha nodded and went back to the couch.

Darcy huffed. "I dunno, Nat. This seems different—almost like it's personal."

Natasha shrugged. "Has Bucky ever been—"

Darcy snorted. "You _know_ him. Unless things are serious shit, his bark is _way_ worse than his bite."

Natasha smirked. "Yeah, and he likes to wield that bark if someone pisses him off enough."

"But that's just it—he's so tired, he's almost mellow. He's stupid quiet, it takes a shit ton to piss him off that much."

Natasha sighed. "So. Where does that leave us?"

Darcy stretched out on the couch, balancing her glass on her belly and tucking her head against the corner of the arm rest. "Fuck all if I know. Jamie would tell me not to worry about it. He doesn't like me fighting his battles for him, talks like he's okay with people treating him like a monster."

Natasha sipped from her glass. "Oh, this is good."

"Right?"

"You think he's feeding you a line?"

Darcy sighed again. "…No. For being… _him_ …he's shit at lying to me, and he's usually brutally honest. He seems…genuinely okay with people disliking or distrusting him. Says he can't blame them or guarantee that he wouldn't do the same if things were switched around."

"Well. He's had a lot of therapy."

Darcy snorted, once, then twice. "Maybe I need the therapy."

Natasha chuckled. "Yeah, super soldiers will do that to a girl."

"It's weird. She went from weird scientist, to friend, to _mother_ , like, in the space of two years. She was subtle at first. Then she was less subtle. Then she just exploded on me about it all with Bucky standing right there. Thor scolded her and everything, but she persists, like he's gonna shank me in my sleep! If he was gonna do that, the time for it is long past."

Natasha nodded. "I remember that, yeah. You ever have any doubts about that?"

"Not for a minute. He has never scared me, not _once_ , nor has he ever hurt me, not even unintentionally."

A brow chinked up and the corner of the spy's mouth curled just so. "Not even during…?"

Darcy felt her cheeks warm. "Not even then." She couldn't stop her own smirk from appearing. "And I've told him that, you know, I won't break. He holds back. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't."

The Black Widow's smirk had become a full, wide grin. "Well. It is Valentine's Day, coming up. Maybe he just needs…a little _incentive_ …?"

Darcy snorted again. "Oh, please. It's not like I can get him drunk, Tash."

She laughed. "Nah. If it makes you feel any better, if I want that, I have to chase it with Steve—and even then it's a fifty-fifty shot."

"I think he's a little terrified he'll, like…lose control of… _the other guy_. He's so sure he'll hurt me either way."

Natasha took a sip from her wine. "He might. Steve might. I've given up arguing. It just makes him anxious."

Darcy sighed. "If only I was as unbreakable as you."

Natasha snorted. "Probably still wouldn't change his mind. Although, apparently his mind has been changed on more than a few things lately."

Darcy blushed again, looking down at her hand. "Much to the consternation of a few people."

"Steve was shocked the other day when he told me what Bucky had said."

Darcy looked up, eyes sharp. "What do you mean—said what?"

Another sip of wine. "Just that he was thinking of asking you. Steve was beside himself about it."

"Why?"

She shrugged demurely. "Not sure. I don't think Bucky really talks to him that much yet. He said he mentioned it off the cuff and seemed a little cagey about it, but when Steve pressed him, it seemed serious."

The door beeped and opened to reveal the man in question.

"Speak of the devil…" Natasha said.

Bucky glanced up as he came in, shouldering his bag onto the floor just inside the door. "Interrupting girl talk?" He winked.

Darcy smiled. "Yeah. Get out."

He chuckled. "I will, actually. Stevie's back, wants to get a drink." He crossed into the apartment and bent over the back of the couch to kiss Darcy on the cheek. "Hey, babe."

"Hey." She blushed. "How'd Steve manage to corral you to a bar?"

He leaned on the back of the furniture. "He didn't. He went out for a six pack. I'm not going out now, it'll be packed with idiots."

Natasha snorted.

He smiled at her. "Natalia," he greeted as he turned for the kitchen.

"Yasha," she returned.

It was a little joking thing they did, calling each other by their Russian titles in oblique reference to their shared close call in Odessa—and DC—not to mention the country they had in common.

He pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and proceeded to drink half of it in one go.

"They wear you out, there, Soldier Boy?" Darcy teased.

He laughed and winked again. "Yeah, dunno how I'm gonna make it upstairs. Might need help." But his expression narrowed as he looked at her, hard. "What's wrong?"

Darcy flinched and tried to hide behind a large gulp of wine.

A tiny little smirk appeared at the corner of Bucky's mouth. "Uh-huh. Right. Jane give you a hard time?" He jutted his chin toward the rock on her hand.

Darcy slumped, giving up. "It's _impossible_ to lie to you."

He grinned. "Then we're even. Check your body language—it's a dead giveaway for someone like me."

She cocked her head. "I feel like there's a Loki joke in there somewhere—' _There are no men like me'_."

Natasha snorted again. "Guy needs to get laid."

"Don't let her get under your skin," Bucky said over them in a gently commanding tone. "It's not worth it and it won't work. And I don't want to come between you."

Natasha shrugged. "Too late."

"It's her problem, not yours," Darcy snapped at this. "I won't listen to her talk to me like a child and call you crazy."

But Bucky shrugged, easy and slightly bemused. "I _am_ a little crazy."

Darcy rolled her eyes. "No, what you are, is a disturbed post-traumatic amnesiac," she insisted. " _Huge_ difference."

Bucky snorted. "To her, there is no difference." He put the water bottle back in the fridge and went for his bag. "Darcy. How many times…? You don't need to defend me—there's startlingly little to defend."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Is that HYDRA I hear coming out of your mouth? Because it _sounds_ like HYDRA."

He passed them, heading for the back hall. "I'm just trying to keep it in perspective. Don't let this drive a wedge between you and Jane. It is what it is." He disappeared down the hall.

Darcy glared at Natasha's bemused expression. "She's the one doing the wedging!" she shouted her rebuttal.

He laughed, the sound echoing as he came back down the hall, pulling on a fresh v-neck t-shirt. "Well, stand your ground, then."

"If she makes me choose, she won't like my answer, that's all I'm saying."

He frowned, but didn't argue what that statement really said about them. "Then I guess that's score one for convictions and true love, hm?" He stopped again at the back of the couch, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. He tapped it to check for messages and slid it back into his pocket.

Darcy sighed. "Yes. It is."

He winked again and leaned over to kiss her other cheek. "You haven't changed your mind about that, have ya?"

She glared, snatching her hand into her lap. "No. It's mine—too late, no backsies."

He winked. "Love you. Have fun. Stay outta trouble, don't get drunk. You told me to remind you of that, remember."

She nodded. "I do." She pulled a face. "And I do."

He chuckled as he moved for the door. "Carry on. As you were."

"Love you too!" she called half a beat too late.

The door shut.

Darcy sighed. "See what I mean?"

The dream faded into a sepia tone and merged with the early not-light that was slowly seeping into the motel room beneath the cheap curtains.

She shifted, frowning as consciousness spread slowly through her.

Bucky was stirring, his mouth running soft lines on her midriff before landing on the jutting bone of her left hip.

"Mm…" she groaned groggily, burying her fingers in his soft hair.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean to wake you."

But it didn't matter. Somewhere in the haze of her dream and their position curled around each other, her blood was warm and pulsing in her veins and she shifted, opening herself to him. "You didn't…"

He slid up her body, his mouth landing on her sternum. "It's early."

She wound her arms around his neck, smiling sleepily at his obvious physical response to her invitation.

His mouth finally found hers and he slanted his lips across hers.

She laughed softly as they slipped together, easy and relaxed. "My favorite."

It was easy and slow, and they did something they didn't usually do—they talked. It was a pointless conversation, really, but he told her about the four days she'd been trapped and what he'd done out on the beach to try and get her back. He didn't press her to add anything from her side of the ordeal. She told him about the strange flashbacks and dreams that had plagued her during her torture and testing, that she'd heard him speaking to her once or twice. Something about that bothered him, even though she told him it had made it easier.

They tossed around plans for their continued trek across the States and discussed getting Tony a gift to try and soften what they knew would be his self-blame.

They took a shower and got further distracted, Darcy clenching her jaw shut to keep quiet as she braced herself on the slick shower tiles. If anything, she seemed even more sensitive now, after what seemed to be her further transformation. Everything was amplified and Bucky smiled, teasing her that he would take advantage of it while he could and she should too. She pointed out that the whole thing was ironic—they hadn't needed to improve on their physical chemistry to begin with. It had always been there, intense, and complete, some invisible thread pulling them together, always. How else could it all be explained? After all, she'd never had a lover before who so thoroughly satisfied her, again and again.

She dismissed it as he turned her around to start again, the two of them facing each other and his hand supporting the small of her back, as a direct result of love and a deep, warm trust.

Later, they laughed as the water ran cold, hurrying to rinse and dress.

And just like that, they were in a hot-wired Ford Mustang, swinging back out onto Route 66 with Bon Jovi on too loud to hear each other talk.

An hour later, she gestured toward a huge sign off the shoulder of the highway. " _Ooh_! Take this exit! _Take this exit_!"

He frowned, but flicked on the blinker. "Why?"

She was practically bouncing in the passenger seat. "Because this is supposed to be a fucking honeymoon, _damn it_ , and we're taking a detour!"

((()))

"…Listen, I know, and I don't want to push, okay? Tony, I _don't_. But I just want to know if you're coming up for dinner."

Tony sighed, wincing and rubbing his eyes as he adjusted the phone against his ear. "Pep, I…"

"…Okay. It's _okay_."

He felt that old friend, guilt, nipping at his heels and glanced up at Steve, sitting in the corner of the lab, futzing with his own phone and frowning worriedly. "I—"

"Baby, I wasn't lying. It's _okay_. I get it. I understand. When you get like this, it's best to just let you do your thing. Go ahead. Let it swallow you up. It's the only thing that'll appease you right now. I'll be here to put you back together again later."

He rubbed at the back of his stiff neck. "I don't mean to—"

" _Tony_ ," Pepper repeated, stopping him again. " _Really_. I'm _serious_. It's okay. Work out the problem and then come up to bed, okay?"

Her voice was so soft and warm. He wanted to go up there right now and lie down in her arms and let the sound of it cocoon him, enfold him beneath her skin there, where he could be content.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "You're the best wife a guy like me could have, Ms. Potts."

Pepper laughed softly. "I know." And she disconnected the call.

He set the phone down on the steel lab table and stared at the screen. His chest felt hollowed out. "Goddamnit," he muttered.

" _SHIT_!"

Steve and Tony both jumped, lunging up out of their chairs with surprised glances at each other, and rushed through to the adjoining room.

Bruce was sitting at his lab table, staring down at the slide on his microscope tray with open shock, his mouth parted.

"Banner?" Steve asked warily as they hovered in the doorway.

"How the _fuck_ did I miss that? I shouldn't have missed that, that's such an amateur mistake," Bruce was saying, what seemed like mostly to himself.

Tony was brave enough to approach, though it looked like Bruce was in no danger of Hulking out. "What's up, Brucie?"

"His blood type," he said weakly, only sparing them a glance before he went back to studying the slide on the viewing table.

"What?" Steve asked.

Bruce sighed, sitting back again. "I know why Darcy was having her episodes." He shook his head, looking ashamed. "So obvious."

Tony slapped him gently on the back. "Come on, man. Get it together, use your words."

Steve thought he heard just the barest hint of desperation in the inventor's voice.

Bruce stood, leaving the station clear. "What do you see, Tony?"

Giving the scientist a weird look, Tony sat down on the stool to get a good vantage point and peered into the oculus. "Looks like blood cells, Bruce. Why?"

"Anything else?"

Tony sighed, going back to the slide. "Looks like B-negative antigens. _Again_ —why?"

Bruce sighed too, pulling a hand down his tired face. "That's Bucky's blood."

"And…?"

"Darcy is type A— _A-positive_ , to be exact."

Tony and Steve both blinked at each other.

"Okay, can you translate?" Tony asked, an eyebrow chinking up. "I can recognize the basics, but I'm not that kinda scientist."

Steve nodded.

Bruce threw himself down into another chair, tugging his hands through his already mussed hair. "You guys don't understand. James Barnes was the _first_ of his kind—the _only_ , as it turns out, really."

Steve cocked his head. "The first super soldier?"

Bruce nodded. "The first of his _kind_ , yes. Steve, you're completely different. You've got the only version of the _original_ serum, and even though what Bucky was injected with ended up being nearly identical in _formulation_ , the mode of use and the linkages and the bare-bones work completely differently. Yes, it adheres the same, _yes_ , you're both enhanced, _yes_ , you're nearly equal in strength, but where you are Patient Zero for Erskine, so Bucky was Patient Zero for Zola, and though the two of you are evenly matched, what followed after Bucky's initial transformation took an immediate left turn. Something about that serum allows for an extra state, a separate state if you will."

Steve nodded slowly. "You mean it has some element that makes its patients predisposed to—"

"Brainwashing, mind-control, mental manipulation, yes. Hence, the other soldiers he's told us about all apparently acted as though they had no moral set—they were reduced to a zero sum and they were a blank slate. All their learned behavior—morality, honesty, kindness—"

"The understanding that you shouldn't kill the person standing next to you—" Tony interjected.

Bruce gestured. " _Yes_. All those things were things that the serum pushed out of the way."

"So what makes Darcy different?" Steve posited.

Bruce shrugged. "I don't know. They've clearly been tweaking it over the years, and besides—it's a predisposition in the _correct environment_ , not a catch-all side-effect. Getting stuck doesn't make you suddenly act like a machine."

"So what's all this got to do with Darcy's episodes?" Tony asked, finally, trying to move it along.

Bruce sighed again, leaning his elbows on the lab table. "I was getting desperate, I mean, major drawing at straws, guys. I remembered I still had some of his initial intake samples on ice, so I went and got one out of cold store and drew it up. I thought I'd break it down, start at the very beginning, that if I drilled all the way down to the bedrock, something might jump out at me. And I realized it's so obvious, I can't believe I missed it—it's really an _undergrad_ mistake." He shook his head again, clucking his tongue.

Tony threw his hands in the air. " _What_ , Bruce?! Out with it, already!"

He took a breath. "Bucky is B-negative. _HYDRA's notes were wrong_. Darcy is A-positive."

They all looked at each other.

" _And_?!" Steve insisted.

"So the only remaining samples of Zola's serum were derived from their only successful integration, Patient Zero: Bucky! That serum contained antigens from his blood."

For a moment, they all stared at each other.

Tony sat down hard again on the stool. "Huh," he finally said, face open in vaguely bewildered surprise.

Steve leaned on the counter and pulled a hand down his face. "Would someone elaborate, please, for the blockheaded soldier in the room?"

Tony frowned down at the offending slide on the microscope. "Darcy was exhibiting signs of a transfusion reaction and we all missed it."

"What's a transfusion reaction?"

Tony reached up and scratched at the back of his neck restlessly. "Well, you know how you're at the mercy of your blood type when it comes to transfusions, unless you're one of the universal groups?"

Steve nodded. "I have a working understanding of it, yeah. Type O, Type AB, I get it."

"If you're given the wrong Type, it can have serious ramifications."

Steve's face went dark and grave. "What type of ramifications?"

Bruce sighed again. "The type of ramifications that mean the only reason she's still alive is the serum in her blood."

Steve gave him a look. "I thought it was _killing_ her?"

Tony let his head flop back against the chair. "That too."

Steve hitched his hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "So the thing that's _killing_ her is the same thing that's _keeping her alive_?"

Tony clucked his tongue. "Pretty much."

There was silence for a long few minutes.

Finally, Steve shifted his weight and said, "…Well, if things were that grave, Bucky would've found a way to be back by now."

Tony shrugged. "We don't know that—"

"We _do_ ," Steve interrupted, nodding.

Tony sighed. "Rogers, we don't know what kind of state either one of them is in—"

" _Tony_." Steve stuck out a hand, shutting it down. "I know how you feel about Darcy. But I _know_ Buck. If things were that hopeless, he'd have moved _heaven and earth_ to get her back here by now. I know Bucky. That's how he feels about Darcy. I know I would do the same for Natasha. If she was in that much danger, I'd kill anyone in my way. I know you'd do it for Pepper."

They spent a long moment looking at each other.

"So where does that put us?" Tony finally asked, turning to Bruce.

The doctor sighed. "Well, we have no way of knowing what happened to her in Hawaii. If Aldrich Killian is involved—"

"He may have developed an advancement in his own serum, right Tony?" Steve posited.

Tony pulled a hand down his face again. "Extremis was extremely volatile, it was unstable—that was the problem with it. When it worked, it was…" He got lost for a moment in the bar fight he'd had with that… _woman_. "It was formidable."

Steve took a seat in their little line. "So we know he was working with Lukin, though, right? He got in the back door, and I have to assume he hoped to utilize their version of Erskine's serum. Maybe he hoped to use it as a template? To merge the two?"

The thought dropped out of his mouth as casual speculation, but as soon as it did, everything stopped as they realized what he'd said.

They all stared at each other.

Steve blinked. "Well. What do we do?"


	15. Chapter 15: Beautiful Disaster

Leaving On A Jet Plane MarvelLitChick

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Chapter 15: Beautiful Disaster

Summary: In which there is a high-speed chase, an allusion to a Red Pill and a Blue Pill, and Bruce gets uncharacteristically involved.

Notes: Hi, all! I'm posting early. I'd like to speed this up so we can catch up and I can utilize some of the ideas I've got hidden away in my JotterPad app. This one's a little bit rock 'n roll. And Tony and Bruce gang up, so hopefully that'll satisfy everyone. I do hope everyone is enjoying the direction I'm taking. It took me a stupid long time to figure out how I was going to sew this one up, and it's taking a while to build, but I think it's coming along nicely. Thanks for all the kudos and comments, I LOVE hearing from you about the plot so far! Please enjoy this section, and let me know how you like! Love you all! PS-I don't own Marvel, I don't own Game of Thrones, and I certainly don't own The Matrix. Unfortunately. Sarah

((()))

"That is a really big ball of twine."

"It is. _Really_ big."

"Really, _really_ big."

"What do you suppose you could use it for?"

"Dunno. Good question."

"Could make a good noose outta that, if I was desperate."

"God, everything is killing with you, isn't it?" Darcy teased, elbowing him in the ribs.

Bucky smirked. "Like everything is sex with you?"

She giggled, weaving her arm through his and leaning into his side. "Well, married to a guy like you, can you blame me for being a little distracted?"

He rolled his eyes, but the tips of his ears were pink. "So, now what? You saw your giant ball of twine…"

She snorted as they turned and began away, arm in arm. "Oh, don't pretend you weren't curious about that ball of twine, Mr. Barnes."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, it was the stop of a lifetime. You wanna go into the gift shop? I'll buy you an ironically miniature one."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Yes! I want an ironically small giant ball of twine. It'll sit on my desk and Tony can laugh at it."

They went inside. The shop was small, but appropriately homey, and he slapped down the fifteen outrageous bucks on the counter and declined the receipt. "Nah, I don't think it's coming back," he snickered at the cashier.

Darcy cooed over it and stuck it in her pocket. "Thanks. Just what I wanted!" She got up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "You're getting scruffy, Sir."

He unlocked the Mustang and opened her door. "Yeah, well, this annoying someone I know wanted to take a detour rather than stop at a motel."

"Ooh, curbside service from an old-fashioned gentleman," she drawled as she slid into the passenger seat. "This girl can appreciate a rugged five o'clock shadow. She ain't no snob."

He shook his head in bemusement and shut her door, getting in the other side and starting the engine.

"And this car is doing it for me a little bit, if I'm being honest."

He raised one eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? She likes the healthy rumble of a V-8?"

She ran a hand over his thigh. "Mm-hmm."

He backed out of the space and pulled back out onto the highway. "I wonder if we should even hook back up with Route 66. I mean, it does have its own nationwide name and we do have people after us. Even under the radar, it's probably risky to stay on it for long."

They took back roads for the rest of the day, finally stopping at dusk at a motel just outside Topeka, where he sighed in relief as he shaved and she lounged on the bed, flicking through HBO stations. "How about _Hot Mommas Like It Rough_?" she called.

There was a short pause. Then he stuck his head out. "That's on _HBO_?"

She snickered. "No, there's nothing on HBO. Go figure. That's on the…Playboy Channel. Pay Per View." She looked at him and wiggled her eyebrows. "What d'ya say? Wanna mix it up a little?"

" _Ugh_." He rolled his eyes and went back to shaving.

"I'm _kidding_!" she cackled, tossing the remote down on the comforter and following him in. She sat down on the edge of the tub and watched him.

"What?" he finally asked, shifting self-consciously.

She shrugged. "Nothin'. Always liked watching Nathan shave when I was little—you know, before I figured out he was a dick."

He snorted, switching off the electric shaver and stowing it back in his bag. "That before they split up?"

She nodded. "Yeah. They both ended up being dicks, it turned out."

He approached and sat down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. She didn't match him—she was much shorter than he was. "If it's any consolation, mine weren't real great either."

She sighed, pulling a hand through her hair. " _Lewis_ ," she scoffed. "I think _Barnes_ sounds good…"

"I want you to take the name because you _want_ it, not because you feel like you should."

She set her head on his shoulder. "No. I want to."

He reached up to squeeze her knee and turned to kiss the top of her head. "We've gotta get home before you can start paperwork."

She chuckled. "Seriously—did we think we'd actually get a normal honeymoon? We can't even go on a regular date."

He snorted. "Yeah. Stupid us."

"We could, however, write a comprehensive review of the motels from Hawaii to Manhattan. Could make some money off of that."

He laughed. "Always thinking ahead, my Darcy."

"Well, you can't think in reverse, that's just— _Whoa_." She jumped, cutting herself off.

Her hands were glowing again, bright red.

Bucky crouched in front of her and studied the reaction with a curious frown. " _Wow_."

" _Shit_ ," Darcy swore.

"What does it feel like?" he asked softly, trying to diffuse her panic.

She bit her lip. "Hot. But cold. I _dunno_! And…and like…I dunno, like I could throw a car."

He held out his left hand.

She cringed back.

"You're not gonna hurt me, babe," he insisted.

Wincing, she set her hands to the vibranium—

And sparks flew like a Fourth of July firework in the tiny bathroom, the same reaction caused by Aldrich Killian in Hawaii.

She let go, flinching away.

Calm and cool, Bucky turned and drew one of his knives from his bag and cleanly slit a shallow cut along his forearm.

"What are you doing?!" she gasped, shocked.

"Let's see if you've maintained your healing ability." He offered it. "Go on. Quick now, or it'll heal on its own."

Sighing in frustration, she shook her head at his cool attitude to pain, but set her hands to his arm, around the cut, like she'd done with Tony's burn, not touching it directly, but outlining it with her fingers.

For a long few seconds, they sat there, waiting, staring down at the blood pooling up in the cut and leaking down his skin, dripping down onto the tiled floor in deep red drops, the color of a merlot they kept stocked in the fridge back home.

She made a grudging noise. "Jamie, this isn't going to—"

As she spoke, the cut disappeared, getting thinner and thinner, before disappearing entirely, the skin on his arm neatly closing the narrow seam.

" _Wow_ ," Bucky said again.

"Great, now it's going to end up on me," she complained, pulling away and staring down at her bare arm.

But nothing happened. Her arm was its usual smooth, porcelain self.

"Holy fuck," she muttered, eyes wide.

Bucky laughed—out loud. "Well, that's a step in the right direction, at least."

The sensation was like fingernails on a chalkboard or a creeping itch at the base of her spine, and she gritted her teeth against it, slamming her fist down against the porcelain edge of the tub.

With a loud snapping sound, it cracked, a three-inch spider web through the side as long and wide as her hand.

She gasped, jumping up to stare at it, her mouth open. "Oh, _fuck_."

They were silent for a moment, Bucky's hands cradling Darcy's elbows to keep her steady.

"Well," he said. "I think it's fair to say that your body is still, uh…working out all the kinks."

((()))

Things continued like this for the next week. They picked their way slowly down the highways, always watching their tail.

They stopped at a few more roadside attractions, and even a little free zoo where Darcy snapped a picture of Bucky with a llama that she swore had the same flat look of sarcasm that he usually wore. She continued to giggle at it later in the day. "It's even chomping on some hay! All crooked—look at his teeth!" she laughed, bubbly and carefree. "You're both so cute!"

He rolled his eyes.

Her hands would glow rebelliously at odd intervals. She'd nearly punch through a random motel room wall.

She woke him up once to warn him that their cover was blown, and they made a break for it, losing their tail in the middle of the night, headlights off, Darcy not needing any extra light to navigate back roads. "You must've been dreaming hard if I heard them before you did," she muttered, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Bucky's voice was grim as he palmed his SIG. "I was _half_ -asleep, _at best_. I didn't hear a thing."

At one point, just outside St. Louis, they were nearly caught.

"I've never used anything long-range before, Jamie," Darcy chirped, cursing the high-pitched fear in her voice. "I'm no sniper."

Bucky's glance flicked from the rear-view mirror to her lap, where she was clutching his sawed-off. A dark smirk curled one side of his mouth. "I said to grab the Beretta, not the sawed-off," he teased, swerving as the dark Rover behind them tried to inch to their left on the deserted stretch of highway.

She swore under her breath and dug around in the backpack at her feet. "What does it say about us that this is becoming old hat?"

He snorted. "That we're never gonna get a normal honeymoon because we're not a normal couple?"

She jammed the shotgun back into the pack, snarling her frustration. "It's weird enough that you can even call us a _couple_. While I was in college, just the thought of a serious relationship gave me hives—now I'm _married_ to a _merc_."

He chuckled, watching the mirror again, his eyes barely on the road in front of them. "Yeah, well, the merc still can't believe he actually had the balls to ask you."

She pulled out the Beretta and checked the clip. Full. She slammed it back shut again with the heel of her hand and glanced in the side mirror.

"Is it weird that the sight of you checking the magazine on a high-powered handgun really turns me on?" he asked suddenly into the disquiet of the cab.

She burst out laughing, throwing off her seatbelt as she turned to adjust her position in the seat so she could watch their pursuers approach. "Good. Now I know how to get your attention next time Mr. BroodyPants makes an appearance."

But he only snorted. "Just admit it—Mr. BroodyPants turns you on, too."

She let a small giggle escape. "What can I say? Some girls think the whole ' _Wounded Bird'_ thing is hot."

But he didn't continue the joking mood. He was scowling at the mirror again. "How the fuck do they keep catching us?"

She sighed, adjusting her grip on the weapon. "I don't know."

"Tony's gotta be tearing his hair out by now, but I don't dare get a burner phone if they're managing to catch up to us _without_ one!"

"It's just a few more states and we're home-free, though, right?"

Bucky snorted again. "Yeah, and we'll be bringing it all right home to Manhattan—a population of approximately one-and-a-half million people. No big deal."

She sighed again, deeper. "Yeah, well, that's where Tony comes in."

"Right, the man whose beach house we leveled. _That_ guy."

She started chewing on her lower lip, the SUV getting larger and larger out the back windshield. "You know Tony doesn't care about that."

He shifted into fourth gear and gunned it harder, his eyes on their pursuers as well. "That's beside the point."

"I know."

"Get your seatbelt back on."

She frowned. "But—"

"I don't care if you're more indestructible now. I have no desire to watch you get thrown out the windshield, Darcy." His voice was low and dark.

She did as he told her, slinking down low in the seat again—

Just as a bullet popped against the back screen.

She jumped.

Scowling, he maneuvered and shifted into fifth, a grim smile curling one side of his mouth at the roar of the Mustang's engine, and his eyes narrowed on the team approaching behind them.

"Do we have the advantage of speed, then?"

Those cornflower eyes flicked back to the rearview mirror again, calculating, he was _always_ calculating—it was so _sexy_. "Difficult to say. A Mustang's specialized for speed, but a Rover—why is it always a _Rover_?—is big. That means big engine. It might not matter so much how fast we go." He took a deep breath. "We've got a manual gearbox, though, that's good."

"Didn't even know you could drive stick."

A tiny smirk, there, at the corner of his mouth. "Only thing available back when."

She nodded. "Right. Yeah." She studied the view flying past, trees whipping by in blurs of color. "Sometimes I forget."

He did some fancy footwork and shifted again, smoothly, no lurch or drag to be found. "Forget what?"

She shut her eyes and rested her head against the headrest, just for a moment. "How old you are."

"Old enough to be your _grandfather_ , you mean?"

"Only in terms of _years_ , yes. Not really in terms of… _age_."

"To be honest, I was surprised that didn't bother you."

She surprised him again and smiled. "Actually, I thought it was sexy."

He snorted. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. You were…beyond all the stupid, cheap, bravado shit. I'd been there, done that. I wanted someone mature and secure—"

"Hardly secure, Darce."

"You were secure in who _Bucky Barnes was_ , yes. I wanted…someone interested in more than a roll in the hay, you know?" She started fidgeting with the gun in her lap. "I'd had enough of men staring at my chest, and guys getting drunk and coming over for a little tap. My list of long-term relationships was short for a reason, you know?"

He nodded, eyes ahead.

"I wanted to be treated like someone other than the fun times girlfriend, I wanted to be treated like someone other than the stupid intern, just a go-fer. I wanted…"

"You wanted to be treated with respect," Bucky filled in for her, eyes flicking to the rearview again.

She shrugged. "I had respect. I mean, I—"

"No, you didn't."

She turned and looked at him, his hands loose on the wheel, deceptively relaxed.

"When you sat down across from me you moved like a girl that was used to not being taken seriously. So you'd learned, the hard way, to act the part so that people couldn't see you. The real you."

She stared at him, mouth opening in surprise.

"You wore your casual attitude and your fast talk like armor. If you rammed people like a freight train before they had a chance to form an opinion of you, they couldn't let you down. People can't let you down if you don't let them in."

She blinked, Tony's words sifting through her head, his opinion, what felt so long ago now, back in Hawaii, that Bucky had had to tunnel under her defenses. "I…"

"I get it," he said, his voice low. "I do that, too. And that's nothing compared to the armor I wore after I became Bucky Barnes again. I know how I was. How I still am, sometimes. I clam up tighter than a bank vault, I don't speak for hours at a time. I sleep like a toddler. I'm more manic than a rabid dog." He smirked. "Don't know how you even put up with me, half the time."

She started chewing on her lower lip and studied the gun in her lap as she slid her finger along the cool steel. "Well. You're my best friend and I'm in love with you, for starters."

He huffed out a small laugh. "You spoke like people's opinion of you was a foregone conclusion, and I figure it's probably because you got tired of looking for male approval."

She frowned, opening her mouth to argue, though, with what words, she wasn't sure. " _Hey_ —"

"Daniel was the last straw. You broke the cycle. But the armor remained. Armor's heavy, it's hard to shrug off on your own." Finally, he turned to look at her, and his eyes telegraphed a hard-won lesson. "You need help."

She met his gaze. "You mean, like Erwin and Killian helped the last of your buried memories float to the surface?"

His expression went slack in surprise, his mask ripped off to reveal his vulnerable eyes, and for a moment, he looked helpless.

She tried to soften the broach in the topic with a gentle smile. "You can't hide from me, any more than I can hide from you."

Still stunned, he blinked at her, his hands steady as the Mustang plunged forward.

"You didn't think your behavior had changed? That I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't put two and two together? Jamie…"

He blinked again, more slowly. "I…"

"You were acting like you did when we first met. Guarded. Stiff. Mournful. I left you to it. We…we come to each other when we're ready." She shrugged. "But sometimes you need a gentle push."

Their pursuers chose that moment to ram them from behind, throwing them forward as the Mustang jerked and protested, wheels squealing against the pavement, and smoke drifted up and past the windows.

" _Shit_ ," Bucky snapped, retrieving his fumbled focus. He tromped on the brakes, throwing the Mustang skidding around to face the other way, and the Rover twisted sideways. He yanked on the handle between their seats, throwing them into a hand brake turn straight out of _Top Gear_.

The air was filled with the sharp tang of burning rubber and the deafening squeal of protesting tires against the gripping pavement.

" _Keep your head down_ ," Bucky yelled—

But Darcy was already flicking the window control and sticking her arm out, determined to at least use their new position to their advantage, and something very…strange happened.

Time slowed as the car whipped around.

The wind sent her hair tumbling around her shoulders and face, but she barely noticed.

Her vision sharpened and her aim struck a clean line down the tuning fork of her right arm, and as she fired, the kick-back barely even registered in her rapidly firing brain.

Everything was rapid shutter release and bullet-time _Matrix_ special effects.

A chill went up her spine, and she squeezed the trigger, watching the bullet ripple through the air, zing through the open window of the Rover, and easily pierce the passenger's temple, sending him slumping forward, dark, arterial blood streaming down his cheekbone.

There was a moment of still silence as the two vehicles sat, its occupants staring at each other in open shock and hostility.

She pulled her arm back in, all focus and calm. "Drive," she said.

Bucky didn't need telling twice, and he released the parking brake and threw the Mustang back into gear, smoothly taking flight again as the Range Rover recovered.

Neither of them spoke.

Bucky's eyes were tight and sharp on the rearview mirror.

Darcy focused hard on pushing down her sense of rising panic, but also the heady adrenaline rush of the unnamable thing she'd just done.

It wasn't guilt, no. She didn't feel bad for her potential killer-slash-kidnapper-slash hired gun. But the sci-fi movie effect was going to come back to bite her in the ass—in fact, it had just done so.

Bucky, of course, took it all in stride. "Keep that Beretta in your hand, dollface," he said.

He let the Rover catch up to them this time, one part curious, the other part just anxious to get this confrontation over with, not only so they could get someplace far away to rest, but also because he wasn't sure what the fuck had just happened and he wanted to check Darcy over—thoroughly.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, wincing for the poor sports car as the British SUV rammed them again—this time in an attempt to get ahead of them on the left, metal crunching between them. " _Sonofabitch_ ," he muttered under his breath, but finally the truck edged past, taking the front position.

He smiled.

"You turned the tables," Darcy said, her voice full of confusion, but also, he thought, a tiny bit of awe.

"Valuable move if you can manage it. Now I'm in pursuit of them and I can duck out at any point."

"But they can fire at us better from back here," she argued.

" _Can_ they?"

She blinked, looking from him to the back bumper of the Rover Sport, then back to him again. "If I shoot through the gas tank, I can't really—"

"That's just a movie effect," he cut her off, nodding as she guessed correctly. "It'll leak, but it actually takes a lot to light fumes up, especially in motion. You can't make them spontaneously combust."

"Damn," she swore, a grin slowly stretching across her face.

"What's the smile for?" he asked, but he was already catching it.

She shrugged, checking her clip. "Oh, nothing. Just that we're like a team, now. Like, _literally_." She looked at him again, laughing softly. "And this adrenaline's gonna have to burn off _somehow_ …" She raised one eyebrow at him.

He smirked.

She stared at the back end of the truck for a long moment, her hand clenched around the Beretta.

"Take a breath," Bucky coached, his voice low.

She did, slowly.

"Let it out. Go slow."

She did, nodding as the air rushed out through her mouth.

"Now loosen your grip. Clutching a weapon too tightly negatively affects your aim."

She tried to relax the stiffened muscles in her hand.

"Good. _Focus_. Peel everything back until it's just you and the weapon you're holding."

"Yes, Master Sergeant," she snarked.

He huffed out an annoyed breath.

"Just drive, Soldier Boy," she said.

Laughing, he gunned it, giving chase.

The Rover was fast, but this time, it didn't have much advantage. The Ford was faster off the line and they caught up to them in just a few short minutes, Darcy tempted to climb out the window and hang out, action movie style, sort of like Bucky had done just a few weeks ago.

" _Don't. Even. Think about it_ ," he suddenly spoke, his voice low and threatening.

She smirked at the sensation of him reading her mind. "You know, your Winter Soldier voice doesn't scare me—it just turns me on."

He rolled his eyes, his jaw set in irritation. "I mean it. I've been doing this a lot longer than you."

"Ugh, but it would be so bad-ass— _you_ did it! You're bad-ass! You wonder why you get so many looks from girls when we go out for coffee? _That's why!_ You're a sexy, bad-ass throwback with a _metal arm_!"

"Darcy, for God's sake—are we really gonna talk about my Calvin Klein potential _right now_?!"

She huffed. "I'm just making a point—you could make a _killing_ if you did some modeling. No…pun intended."

The Rover slammed on the brakes—hard, sliding to a stop in a way that she figured took points off as far as the _Top Gear_ guys were concerned.

But it forced Bucky to crunch down on the brakes as well, swearing again as he did so.

The driver's window rolled down and a man all in black ducked out with a very large gun.

Both sides of the backseat were occupied similarly.

"Jamie…" Darcy murmured as they stared.

"Hold on," he said, his voice low with concentration as he slammed it into reverse and they careened backward, the G-forces pinning her to the passenger seat, the scenery rushing back through time out her window.

She grabbed hard at the arm rests, squeezing her eyes shut—

And he pulled on the parking brake again, sending them spinning around the other way.

She gasped as they rocked to a stop. "You could drag race for a living," she murmured weakly.

He gave a soft little laugh in the sudden quiet, watching as the Rover recovered yet again, turning around in pursuit.

"God, they're dogs," he muttered, throwing it back in gear and heading straight for them. "Alright. You wanna play? We can play."

Darcy's eyes went wide. "I thought you were supposed to go in the _other_ direction?!" she shrieked as she realized what he was doing, her voice nearly drowned out as a red sedan passed them, swinging wildly to stay out of the way, its horn blaring the Doppler effect as it passed, before fading again.

But Bucky was calm, his hands steady on the wheel as they screamed closer and closer to the SUV.

Realizing that their quarry perhaps wasn't as stable as they'd been led to believe, the other truck put on a burst of speed in reverse, the engine positively roaring as they fled.

Bucky chuckled.

" _Jamie_!" she said again, grabbing his arm. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?!"  
"You trust me?"

Again, with the _Aladdin_ lines, making her a gooey puddle of Disney cute at his feet. " _Ugh_!" she grumbled, holding on.

But he broke just shy of the truck, minimizing the damage to the front end as he slammed into the Range Rover's grill.

Unfortunately, their pursuers were either in too much shadow or were wearing partial black gear, their features unable to be clearly deciphered and committed to memory.

But the eyes of their driver were clear enough, wide and shocked.

The two in the back leaned around and began firing, first at their tires—which they missed—then at the windshield, the bullets pinging uselessly around.

"You're a shit shot!" Bucky yelled, knowing the driver would be able to read his lips through the glass. "Get some fucking professionals."

"They can't have you, remember?" Darcy commented. "You're _mine_."

Another bullet struck the windshield, and it cracked, the spider web spreading quickly across the glass in front of Darcy's face.

" _Damn_ it," Bucky snarled, but he didn't ease his chase.

Another bullet, one Darcy couldn't see around the fractured safety glass, and it split the skin of her shoulder open in a shallow graze, slicing a sketch of blood to the surface and dying her t-shirt crimson red. "Ah!" she yelped, more in surprise than against the sudden flash of pain.

Bucky started swearing again, rapid-fire, phrases that sounded old, raw things she'd never heard before pocked roughly with violent Russian, a little French that she could just barely identify as she pressed the heel of her hand against the damp heat on her right arm, cringing.

"Hang on, Darce," he told her.

" _Fuckers_ ," she growled, cringing, her temper flaring up out of nowhere, a familiar tingling sensation creeping through her fingers. She raised the Beretta—

"Not through the windshield, Darcy!" he shouted, his human hand inching toward the emergency brake again.

" _Shit_!"

The Rover slammed on the brakes, and they rammed into them unexpectedly.

The Beretta went tumbling out of her grip and was lost somewhere in the floor well at her feet. "Son of a _fucking_ —!" She slammed her hands down on the dashboard in a fit of rage, her vision reddening—

The glow of her hands arced in an electrical zap up the dash and rippled the windshield, sending glass everywhere. It buckled into the front of the Range Rover, throwing them off, the Mustang shooting backward as Bucky fought for grip. The Rover's grill warped, a sizzling sound began issuing from the truck, and an invisible force of air slammed the SUV forward, careening helplessly on its two left tires.

They squealed in protest, but the attempt at rapid overcorrection came too late, and the boxy truck slammed down on its driver's side, rolled once, and tipped into the ditch, hissing.

Bucky recovered the Mustang enough to get it into a controlled skid, and they drifted across the oncoming lane of traffic and swung to a rough stop, in the lane, and even facing the right way, tires smoking.

Breathless, they looked at each other—

And the Range Rover exploded in a cloud of orange and black smoke, huffing gasoline fumes rising into the air as the metal warped and fused in the ditch.

Darcy jumped, letting a gasp of shock escape as the heat reached them, billowing in the breeze through the space where their windshield used to be.

There was no movement from within.

The silence was echoing and boundless as they sat there, watching, breathless.

The air was filled with the smell of burning rubber, toasted leather, and lit gasoline fumes.

It crackled as it was engulfed and two more, smaller, explosions popped free as chemicals mixed and reacted to their own combustion against each other.

"Look at that," Darcy muttered, watching dazedly, "I did make them spontaneously combust."

Bucky nodded. "You did."

He put it in gear and drove away.

((()))

They ditched the trashed Mustang, with regret, two hours later, and she stood restlessly by, in the dark shadow of a Missouri sunset as he hot-wired a black Chevy Tahoe to replace it, gripping the recovered Beretta in her left hand and clutching at her right shoulder the best she could. Her arm burned. What was truly disconcerting wasn't the discomfort, but the knowledge that what was a mere prickling, burning sensation to her would be unbearable pain to an…ordinary human.

Neither of them spoke.

She stood in the dark splash of a building housing a deli and an art studio and watched the muscles in his human arm work, accompanied by the soft whirring of his left, his skin gleaming with a light sheen of summer sweat and drawing her hungry eyes.

Whatever had happened back there had awoken a strange pulse in her and she swallowed back the nearly unbearable—quickly bordering on _painful_ —urge to jump his bones, right there, in the alleyway, in plain view of whoever happened beneath that nearest streetlight. She was agitated, and usually agitation served to simply piss her off further, but whatever was assaulting her veins was making her a volatile, inhuman… _thing_.

She wanted to drag and pull at his powerful body, she wanted to rake her nails over his skin and draw blood, she wanted him to—

She clenched her jaw, pushing down on the tightening in her belly.

"Stop grinding your teeth," he said, his voice low and soothing.

She swallowed again, shutting her eyes and tipping her head back, trying to take a deep breath and focus. "Sorry."

He worked in silence for a few more minutes.

She wasn't sure what he was doing. She'd timed him with the Mustang, and she knew for a fact that he could hotwire in under two minutes, but she didn't ask what he was doing now, here, at the backend of the Tahoe. She clenched her hands into fists, simply trying to focus on that, and nothing else.

"It makes you feel high, I know, alive and unbeatable, but it'll eat you alive if you give it the ammunition of your resistance. The trick is not to fight it so hard," he spoke again a moment later, still focused on his task.

She took another breath.

"You try and fight it, it'll take you down, quickly and efficiently. The more you struggle, the tighter it tightens the noose around your neck."

She growled out her frustration in her throat, pacing one way, then back again behind the truck, her sandals slapping on the pavement. "I can't decide if I want to rip something to shreds or fuck you against that wall."

He didn't react to her vulgar choice of words; in fact, he didn't particularly react at all, as though she'd pointed out that her favorite color was blue. He didn't laugh, either, which she was grateful for. "Perfectly normal."

"How do you even know _what's_ normal here, Jamie?!" she snapped. The shock of blowing up a Range Rover Sport on a deserted strip of highway was wearing off, and fast. "I've got a foreign cocktail of _shit_ in my blood right now. _None of this is normal_!"

"Try and keep your voice down, baby. We're trying to lay low," he said, his voice deep and smooth.

"Don't ' _baby'_ me right now, Jamie! I just _blew_ up a fucking SUV!"

"Darcy…"

She pressed the back of her shaking hand to her forehead and winced in pain. "I just blew up a British import with my bare hands and I'm starting to lose my grip on this, Jamie, I don't know what the fuck is happening to me, and my shoulder _really fucking_ hurts, and—"

And she was suddenly pressed back—hard—against the Tahoe, Bucky moving so quickly he was a blur of dim color in the sunset, and he pinned her there with his body, his eyes dark as he hitched her wrists against the cool paint job. "Darcy," he said again, but he didn't sound angry, or even frustrated, or even forceful. He just sounded low and soothing, like he was speaking to a wounded animal that needed coaching and comfort. "Darcy."

She stared at him, her heart pounding out a tattoo against her ribcage and she knew he could feel it against his belly. She was breathless, and she wasn't sure if it was from recent events, her physical desire for him, or both, the sharpness encroaching from all sides. She felt vaguely claustrophobic and was unsurprised that even in this new state she was slowly finding herself in, he was still capable of overpowering her with ease.

"Darcy, _solnishka_ ," he whispered, releasing her wrists to cup her face. "Let go. It's alright."

His voice was a bright, soft thing against the inside of her skull, comforting and supportive, encouraging but not too syrupy sweet.

"I'm here. It's alright. I won't let it devour you."

She settled her hands on his chest and swallowed thickly again, forcing it down.

" _Don't_ do that," he coached. "Don't push it down. Let it out. Trust me." He used his grip as leverage and forced her chin to tip so she had nowhere to look but his face. "Focus on me."

She wriggled against his hard body, flinching at the sharp arousal it drew out of her, and she bit her lip as everything in her strained toward him, her core tightening further.

He didn't seem to react. She knew he kept a tight leash on his self-control. "Focus on me."

She wished he'd loosen the slack a little.

"We can't go at each other like two animals in this alleyway, Darcy, and I can't have you suffering a panic attack while I'm trying to steal someone's car. Look at me."

She flinched again.

" _Look at me_ , solnishka," he repeated, his voice softening further, in that warm way he had when he used those Russian terms of endearment, like velvet on her skin and she shamelessly managed to get a knee between his legs, pressing up—

His jaw hardened and his voice followed suit. " _Darcy_. _Look_ at me."

She did.

God, his eyes were blue, bright sky at evening, just before the sunset on a lake.

"I just need you to hold on for a few more minutes and then we're out of here, okay?" he soothed her. "We'll be out of here and we can crawl into another hole in the ground and I can take a look at your shoulder, okay?"

Her breathing unsteady, she nodded.

He slowly released her, and went back to his task, which, she found out five minutes later, had revolved around disconnecting the brake lights so they wouldn't be as easy to trail in the dark.

((()))

An hour later, they were holed up in another motel room, this one done up in stately blues and the television had been left on HBO, where a season three episode of _Game of Thrones_ was playing. Darcy narrowed her eyes at it, suspicious, as Bucky studied the wound on her right shoulder.

"Stop clenching your jaw," he gently scolded, his fingers barely there on the skin of her upper arm. The light-as-air touch only made the flush in her body spike higher and she wriggled, searching for a comfortable position on the bed.

He leaned over, apparently nonplussed, and flicked on the bedside light.

Jon Snow came on the screen, in an ice cave on the television, wearing layers of fur.

She sighed, immediately identifying the episode and rolling her eyes, casting around for the remote. Disappeared in their flurry of activity, getting inside under cover of darkness.

"Just a graze," he confirmed, his fingers pressing and probing harder now. "Skin's already knitted up again."

She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the sensations wracking her and look at it clinically. What the frickety-frack was going on?

"You might have a faint scar…" he offered.

"Don't care," she murmured.

He got up and went into the bathroom. "Let me just clean it, okay?"

The furs were gone, now, and Jon was naked on the screen with Ygritte, and they were kissing madly, all wrapped up in each other.

"Oh, fucking hell," she complained, under her breath.

He still heard her. "What's wrong?" he asked as he came back into the room.

She scowled, sighing heavily.

He followed her gaze to the TV, studied it for a moment, and smirked, giving her a sympathetic look as he found the remote and shut it off, just as the sex started. "There. Better?"

She gave him a baleful look. "No."

He chuckled softly and sat down again beside her. "Sorry."

She ran her other hand down her face tiredly, trying to breathe, deeply and slowly. "God, did this happen to you? Do you remember wanting to tear things up like this?! I've never felt like this before!"

He ran a hand soothingly down her arm. "Not quite like this. You're obviously hopped up on the adrenaline surge though."

She slipped out of his grip and folded her legs up, pressing her hands against her face and hiding there against her thighs. "Kill me. I don't want this." Warmth touched her face, and she jerked back as her hands began to glow again, like they were protesting the idea. Her whole body ached mercilessly.

And beneath it all, the vision of a burned out SUV, hollow and smoking in a ditch.

"Jamie…"

He began washing the dried blood and ick off her arm, gently, though the washcloth was rough from overuse. "I know, baby."

"Everything hurts. My whole body is one giant throb."

He set the washcloth aside and ran his fingers over his work. "I know. That I _do_ remember. That's not the Extremis. Whatever's going on inside you, your two doses are mingling and reacting, and some weird side effects are…to be expected."

"I just wish it would do what it was gonna do and be done with it. But it's like every time I discover some new ability, it starts all over again and my body needs to… _recalibrate_!" She slumped over on her back on the bed. "I'm tired, Jamie…"

He set his hand on her belly, inadvertently making her scars there ache and tug at her libido even further. "I know."

She looked at him, really looked at him, studying his face, his features, tired but warm and open. His eyes were especially bright today, a fathomless cornflower blue that she seriously thought she could convince herself to get lost in. "I wanna go home. Don't you wanna go home?"

He nodded. "I'll get you there as fast as I can. I'm working on it."

She set a hand over his. "I know."

They shared a shower, and when she inevitably got impatient at his affectionate machinations, he just smiled and calmed her with a look. He deliberately took his time working up to the actual sex, but her satisfaction was nothing less than bone-shakingly, toe-curlingly intense—and ongoing. He didn't stop there, and she lost track of how many rounds they went, barely resting in between.

She tugged her fingers through his hair, glancing at the digital clock in the dark. "Oh, God, it's after three," she said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and wove her fingers back through his hair again.

He curled his fingertips into the soft skin at the small of her back and pressed his mouth to her left hip. "It was late when we got here," he murmured. His eyes flashed in the dark like a cat's and a passing car's headlights through the slats in the drapes blinked across his face, revealing a crooked smirk curling one corner of his mouth. "Feeling better?"

She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh that sounded, surprisingly, as relaxed as she felt. "You know your way around, that's for sure."

He chuckled softly, nuzzling his face against her belly, his stubble stinging against her scars. They were fading already, leaving tiny white welts behind. It was funny, she thought, that the only physical sign of any vulnerability on her was what attracted a surprisingly large amount of his attentions, whether he realized it or not. He was like a content puppy, pressing his face against her.

Her White Knight.

"If you could go back and change something, what would it be?" she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. God, it was soft, she could seriously do it all day. Suddenly, she was so ironically content, she never wanted to move from under him, where her legs her pinned. She marveled that she could be so shamelessly comfortable with someone as she was with him.

He pressed his mouth to a particularly raw scar and looked up at her, his face disturbingly clear in the dark. "Nothing."

She jerked her head back to stare at him, frowning, confused. "What do you mean, ' _nothing'_?"

He shrugged, awkwardly, in his prone position. "I mean, nothing."

She blinked. "You wouldn't change… _anything_?! _You_?!"

Another funny shrug, his left shoulder whirring gently. "No."

She laid there for a moment blinking. "Well…why the hell not?"

He shrugged again, looking away in that funny way he had that told her he was embarrassed and uncomfortable with the current topic.

She narrowed her eyes, studying his body language, and nudged a knee up, against his hip. "Spill, Soldier Boy."

He smiled self-consciously, burying his face in her waistline again. "You'll laugh."

She tugged at his hair. "No, I won't." She shifted her hip and he retreated a bit, letting her adjust. "C'mon."

He huffed out a sigh and set his chin on her hip. "It's weird, right?"

She nodded. "Yes, in fact, it is. Very."

"And it's gonna sound trite."

She nodded again. "I'm counting on it."

He sighed again, rolling his eyes. "Right. But…"

She raised her eyebrows. "Go ahead…"

"There's no…guarantee…that whatever I would change wouldn't alter the fact that…I…met you," he said, his voice low and quiet, sober as he looked up at her.

They shared a long look.

"So, you're saying you're a believer in fate."

He pressed another kiss to her hip. "Mm. Guess I am."

She watched him, content and still, eyes closed against her body. "I guess that's the only way to make sense of what happened to you, isn't it?"

He opened his eyes. "You're _not_ a believer in fate?"

She shrugged. "Guess I wasn't, really, until I met Jane." Her eyes tightened at the mention of the astrophysicist. "But…I mean, I steered a camper van straight into a Norse God who'd been kicked outta the house by his asshole father, and then I tazed him because I thought he was a drunk, high creeper. Then things got…a little…weird. So. I guess I don't have any way to explain that, either, other than a work of…fate."

"I mean, I don't think it's all…laid out," he continued. "I mean, you make a choice, and your path…delineates. You know what I mean?"

"So you're a _Many Worlds_ sorta geek," she said, smirking.

His ears went pink. "I guess."

"So, somewhere there's another Bucky and another Darcy, and they're living in Upstate New York with a Passat and two foster dogs? He's an investment banker, and she's a corporate lawyer and they have a vacation house on the coast of Maine?"

He looked up at her. "Is that…what you want?"

She barked out a laugh, and it sounded sharp in the soft darkness of the room, the summery breeze through the window. " _God_ , no. But I guess there has to be a world out there where you're _not_ the Winter Soldier. Right? None of that happened."

"I guess. That's why I wouldn't change anything. If none of the stuff that happened still happens, how can you still be a…a guarantee?"

She buried her hands in his hair again. "Well, I could turn your argument against you and postulate that if you're a believer in fate, then we're star-crossed, meant-to-be, _Romeo and Juliet_ lovers, right?"

He cocked a brow. "Romeo and Juliet were idiots who killed themselves over a misunderstanding."

She scoffed. "That's beside the point."

He chuckled. " _Are we_ , though?"

Something about this sobered her, fast. "Well." She stumbled. "I don't want anyone else. You're… _it_ …for me. I wouldn't have married you otherwise, and…and, I dunno, it all felt sort of… _destined_ …to me." She blushed and cursed that he could see it in the dark.

But he only nodded. "Mm. You felt too good to be true when you sat down on that lab stool, I'll tell you that much."

"Well, you were pretty lost in your head, there, Soldier Boy. How do you know I was there at all, and not a figment of your—"

"Psychosis?" he offered.

She tugged at his hair. "Stop it. No, I was going to say ' _imagination'_."

"Oh, I misunderstood," he teased.

She pulled harder. "Ah, I forgot, that's a _thing_ with you, having your hair pulled, isn't it?"

Instead of another kiss, he rasped his teeth along the jutting bone of her left hip.

She squirmed against him. " _Stop it_ ," she whined. "I can't take anymore, seriously. I don't think I've got anything left. You bled me dry, you _vampire_."

He started nipping his way along her torso.

She squealed as she wriggled beneath him, but was trapped by his weight, and that arm, which he'd wrapped around her waist, the now-warm metal smoothness of his fingers pressing into her skin. She couldn't even slide her legs free.

"I'll make a wager that you aren't," he contradicted, giving her a dark and promising look.

He won the bet.

((()))

Tony scowled at his computer screen.

 _It would appear your hunch was incorrect, Sir_ , JARVIS said, the automated voice sounding, if Tony's ears weren't playing tricks on him, a bit regretful.

"Yeah, I got that, buddy, thanks," he said flatly, pushing back from his desk. "Any other stupid ideas?"

 _Triangulating any residual signal loss between here and Oahu was a bit of a long shot, Sir._

Tony narrowed his eyes. "I don't like your tone, J."

A pause. _Apologies, Sir. And usually humor serves to distract you so well._

Tony sighed, flopping back in his desk chair and tipping his head lazily back to stare at the ceiling tiles. Guilt was a hard lump in his chest, and though he tried to push it down—Steve was right, Darcy would smack him—it was sharp, with a jagged edge.

He took a deep breath, then let it out, slowly, through his nose, trying to rationalize.

James Barnes was a lot of things, but _stupid_ wasn't one of them. And though half the team discounted him ninety percent of the time, the man was capable of wiping the floor with each and every one of them with minimal effort—with the obvious exceptions of Thor and a pissed-off Bruce, of course. The fact that he _didn't_ , even when they treated him like dirt should've been all the proof they needed that he was on their side. Not to mention the fact that he took all of their harsh judgment lying down, and quiet. He rarely defended himself.

Darcy did all that for him—and against his wishes, most of the time.

For _God's sake_ , the guy had _enlisted_ , _deliberately_ putting himself between their grandparents and _Hitler_. No matter what had happened in the interim, that man was still in there somewhere.

Even Tony Stark was capable of putting things firmly in the past and leaving them there.

The man was a fucking force.

And the look in his eyes when he looked at Darcy…like he was a drowning man and she was the buoy…like she held the roadmap in her hands…she wasn't _any_ port in a storm for him—she was the _only_ port.

If anyone was capable of keeping Darcy safe in the chaos, it was the Winter Soldier—or the man who _used_ to be the Winter Soldier. _Was_ he still the Winter Soldier?

Tony had never dared ask him much about his scarred past.

The details he'd managed to glean—accidentally—from Darcy were more than enough—sometimes, too much. And besides, whenever he did bring it up, Bucky winced like he was waiting for the proverbial punch, as though the first place he went was his murder of the Starks.

And that said nothing of his worry over Romanoff, too. She was out there—alone—playing Cat and Mouse, looking for those two in the blizzard. Something happened to her and Rogers would _flip_.

He felt so fucking useless. He was out of options.

He'd checked tracking devices, he'd checked cars, he'd check the beach house so many times he was starting to think of redecorating ideas himself, for God's sake.

"Pull it together, Stark. If she was dead, you'd know it by now. Buck's keeping his head down, just like any other soldier," he muttered to himself, pressing his hands to his face.

"I'm sure they're fine, Stark," a voice suddenly spoke, quite near.

Tony might have made a noise that sounded vaguely like, " _Gah_!" and jumped a foot out of his rolling chair, grappling and scrabbling at it before it careened across the room on its wheels. " _Seriously_?!"

Jane Foster, Astrophysicist, stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest as she watched him with a bemused expression. She held a small stack of papers in one hand and eyed him with a raised eyebrow. "On edge?" she offered.

Immediately, Tony felt his hackles rise. The last time he'd spoken to the scientist, she'd been in the middle of a row with Darcy, using sharp words to make her opinion quite clear on the matter of her engagement to Bucky. It hadn't left Tony with a good taste in his mouth, and though he heard Pepper in his head telling him to be cordial, he did feel a small tic in his shoulder as he looked at her. "You could say that."

"I'm sure Darcy's fine," she allowed, shrugging. "She's with _Bucky_ , after all."

His short patience since this had all started chose that moment to really take its toll, and he clenched his jaw, that tic of annoyance making his shoulder jerk again.

Jane, of course, caught it. "What?"

He sighed, reaching up to pull a hand down his face. "Nothing, Foster, nothing. Just…I don't get you. Okay? I _don't_. I don't fucking _get you_ at all."

She jerked, her expression twisting. "What's _your_ problem?"

He pulled up another screen on his computer and with a flick of his hand, tossed the security cam footage up on the holo-display. "It's just that the whole building is in an uproar—you're so-called _best friend_ has been _kidnapped_ —likely tortured at some point in the near-past—but the best you've got is a shrug and, _'I'm sure she's fine—she's with Bucky, after all'_ —like you _haven't_ spent the last half a year bitching and moaning about the guy." He threw his hands up as he crossed the room to the blue image hanging in the air. "I just—I can't wrap my head around it—and that's _with_ an MIT degree."

She leaned on his desk, scowling. "And graduating _Summa cum Laude_ doesn't prepare you to understand the female mind—is _that_ what you're saying?"

He snorted, grabbing the image and turning it one way, then the other. He hated that he had time-lapse footage of the whole mess but he could do nothing with it. "Hey—don't make this a Feminism debate, Foster. I give Darcy free-reign. The girl can do whatever she wants. I'm not like that. This is about you not giving two shits about the team you're supposed to be working with."

"Hey, Tony, I've mocked up those slides we were looking a—" Bruce said as he came breezing into the room, but stopped as he saw Jane's expression. "Oh." His lab coat fell still around him as he hesitated near the doorway.

"Banner," Jane said, gesturing. "Perfect timing—would you say I've been acting like I don't give—what was it?—'two shits' about the team for the past six months?"

Bruce jerked, eyebrows bumping up. "Uuhhh…I'm not…I'm not really looking to get in the middle of—"

"Just say it, Banner," Jane snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Uh, yes," he finally landed, wincing belatedly as he stuck his hands in his pockets.

" _Really_?" Jane cocked her head and nailed him to the wall with her baleful frown. "Is _that_ so?"

Bruce shuffled a bit, shrugging. "Well, Darcy's been…quiet. I guess." He nodded. "Yes, quiet. She's been…not quite herself."

Tony shook his head and swiped at the holo-image, sweeping the next one into place, a still of the beach house's front patio with the screen door hanging off one hinge. "Understatement of the year."

"Well, of course she hasn't been herself," Jane argued. "With the serum in her blood, she's been—"

"The last time I spoke to her, it wasn't about the serum," the doctor interrupted. "She, uh…mentioned inviting you over before they left on their trip, and, apparently…"

"Apparently you asked if someone in particular would be around and when you were told he would— _as it is partly his apartment_ —you declined the offer," Tony cut in, his words sharp and cutting.

Looking hopelessly awkward, Bruce nodded, glancing at everything but the astrophysicist as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "Right. That."

Jane threw her arms up. "Well, it's not like—"

"You haven't made your feelings on the matter clear?" Tony interrupted again. "Nah, it wasn't like that at all."

Jane stood there, shaking her head.

"Son of a bitch," Tony muttered under his breath. He'd have caught more than just post-event house trauma had he had the security cameras pointing into the damn house!

Bruce approached and stood there, studying the image as well.

"I…have trouble…trusting him," Jane offered a moment later, sounding apprehensive.

Tony snorted again. "Well, you're not the only one—you and Hill should form a club."

Bruce smirked.

"Seriously," Jane insisted. "I mean, you guys are _okay_ with him?!"

Tony shrugged. "He fought the _Nazis_ , Foster. What else has the guy gotta do?"

She huffed. "Bruce?"

Banner turned to give her a sheepish sort of look. "I hardly have any room to criticize anyone, Jane. And besides—he sort of reminds me of me. Like he's waiting for…" He didn't finish, offering a placating sort of look before turning back to the security footage. "Definitely looks like Extremis damage to me."

Tony pulled a hand down his face again and blinked hard—tiredly—at the image. "What sort of effects might that stuff have on her in her condition?"

"I—"

"But you're _okay_ with him—and _Darcy_?!" Jane interrupted their postulating. "I mean, Stark—you—you…" She appeared to be grasping at straws. "You feel like—"

" _Like she's my daughter_?" he offered, turning to glare at her. "Yes. What's your point, Foster?"

She gave him an exasperated look and huffed again. "Well, you're okay with the two of them?! _Together_?!"

Tony sighed, finally turning and giving her his full attention. "Foster. Let me explain something to you: Darcy is a big girl. I love her to pieces, yes. But she's a _big girl_. And that means she's capable of making her own choices. She does not need a parent to look out for her. The fact that she doesn't mind me doing it is wonky enough." He gave Bruce a look.

"But you _do_ care! And you see no problem with her and Bucky?!"

Tony's eyes drooped shut for just a split second. God, he had a splitting headache starting to throb in his forehead and she was going to smack at it until he screamed. "Foster, Bucky is an adult as well, and whether you like it or not, the two of them are together. In fact, I'd say they're _so_ together that you ought to just accept it, because no amount of bitching is going to change it—they're _solid_. Capiche?"

She scowled. "You just _think_ they are. How can he _possibly_ even…?"

"You think someone who might be fragmented is incapable of knowing what he's feeling?" Bruce asked, then, so softly and so pointedly, that for a moment, the room was silent.

Jane stared at him, mouth open, hearing her own mistake. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes," Bruce interrupted. "You did."

She snapped her mouth shut, standing there, staring at them both.

"I've killed people, Jane," the doctor said, matter-of-factly. "Bucky knows what that feels like. It's a guilt that you can't put down. It sticks. And if you think that Bucky is okay with that, I can guarantee to you that he isn't. Have you read his medical file?"

Jane backpedaled rapidly. "Well, no, but—"

"Because if you had, then you'd know that his PTSD is record scale. His trauma was off the charts, Jane. Night terrors. Flashbacks. Rapid onset memory triggers. Depression. Anxiety. Panic attacks. Paranoia. Everything you'd expect from someone who was—"

"But how can you even prove what he went through to begin with?!" she snapped. "Where's the scientific proof? Brainwashing is just a working theory."

Tony blinked. "You love Thor?"

She gave him a stupid look at the rapid change in subject. "Of course I love Thor."

Tony shrugged. "Prove it."

She blinked back at him. "Well, I—" She jerked, staring at him. "I…" She frowned.

"You can't, can you?" the inventor said, raising his eyebrows at her. "You can't prove that any more than Bucky can prove that what he did was under someone else's influence and manipulation, can you?"

She sighed. "Well…"

"The difference, of course, being that the fact that you _can't_ prove it doesn't leave a hole in you the size of South America, and the idea that there must be a reason that you have memories you have no recollection of putting in your own head. That you were tortured for years on end, that you were manipulated and bent to someone else's will."

She sighed.

"You know, the first time Darcy had one of her episodes, it took me _ten minutes_ to get in to see her, he was so protective of her. And when she joked about going back in time and I offered to do the same for him, keep him from falling off that train—" He smiled at the memory—"he refused. Falling out of that train was something that could 'stay there', he said."

She frowned. " _Why_?"

Tony shrugged again, looking thoughtful and sad. "Because fate put him here. Put her in his path. That tells me that he'd be willing to do it all again—all of… _that_ …just to make sure that he didn't miss her."

She stood there, staring at him.

"So, yeah. I'm okay with them. And frankly, it's no one else's business. They all like to joke about her living in the lion's den, but none of them are brave enough to look him in the face, are they?"

Jane flinched.

"Far be it for _you_ to throw stones, hm?"

Bruce clapped a hand on Tony's back. "We should get back to this, Stark."

"I just worry about her," she finally said, her voice low. "With him."

"That just means you've never really looked at them," Tony snapped, his eyes cold. " _Doesn't it_?"


	16. Chapter 16: Fools Rush In

**Leaving On A Jet Plane** **MarvelLitChick**

 **Chapter Management** **  
Chapter 16** **: Fools Rush In**

 **Summary:** **Some dancing, some reminiscing, and some guilt.**

 **Notes:** **Hey, guys! I'm back! Like I said, I'll be posting a little faster now, so I can catch up. I'm so glad you all liked the last chapter! I was a little worried about all the action coming off well, but it seems like it was okay! Thank you all for the comments and stuff, I'll be replying to you all in just a few minutes!** **This chapter is pretty light. I'm sorry it'll be a few pages shorter than usual, but I just couldn't fathom posting the next scene with this group I've got in this chapter, and it was just way too long. It'll open the next chapter next weekend. Anyway, like I said, this one is pretty light on the action, heavy on the angst. There's some dancing, there's some Natasha, there's some Jane, feeling guilty-as she should! Hope you guys enjoy! Please let me know any feedback/questions/ideas you have. I'd love to hear someone's ideas for this gang! I really would!** **Once again, I don't own Marvel. I also don't own anything else pop-culture-related here, so Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, etc. Chapter title taken from the song originally recorded by Elvis Presley, Can't Help Falling In Love. It was written by Hugo Peretti, Luigi Creatore, and George David Weiss, and is owned by RCA. The version I mean to use here is the recent cover by Haley Reinhart, from American Idol fame. Honestly, I think her version is a little more of an emotional heavy-hitter, go give it a listen, it's just so freaking good. You probably will recognize it from those adorable Extra Gum commercials last year!** **Enjoy! Love! Sarah**

((()))

When Darcy woke the next morning, she was confused for a moment about where she was. It was the same motel room, yes, all done up in blue, sure.

There was the bathroom on the left. The TV straight ahead, no problem.

But the bed was cold beside her— _ice_ cold, in fact.

Then there was the matter of the single red rose on the bedside table, in a crystal vase with an etching of chasing foxes around the base, carved in remarkable likeness. She _loved_ foxes.

She blinked at it for a moment, sitting up in her t-shirt and raking her fingers through her loose hair.

The bathroom door opened.

She jumped, whipping around.

"Whoa," Bucky said, voice low as he held up a hand from the doorway. "Just me."

She blinked stupidly at him, glanced around the room again, then at the vase, then back to him.

He smirked, his face softening in bemusement. "I let you sleep, yeah. You were out pretty hard."

She opened her mouth, shut it again, cleared her throat.

"You forgot," he said, the smirk widening into a soft smile.

She cocked her head. "Forgot what?"

He chuckled and slid onto the bed beside her, stretching out to kiss her on the cheek. "Happy Birthday."

She blinked again, her brain sticking in second gear and refusing to accelerate. "Birthday…" she repeated stupidly.

He chuckled again, reaching up to comb her hair back from her face. "You needed the rest. Seems like you still do…"

She shut her eyes and shook her head, frustration adding to her cloud of grogginess, but she couldn't shake it so easily. "It's my…?"

He sighed. "Well, we have been floating around for a while, but last I checked, it was July 12th. Now, I can't really brag, since I've been outfitted with a photographic memory, but I'm pretty positive that's your birthday—unless, of course, you lied to me out of some need to pretend it didn't exist." He grinned. "You've never shied away from it before. Last year, didn't you go out and get plastered with the girls and come to my place to beg me to…what was it?" He tilted his head as though thinking of a direct quote. "I believe you said, 'bang you like a firework.'"

She groaned, pressing her hands to her face. " _Ugh_ …"

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with affection. "You were pretty drunk."

"Thank God, or I'd have to be committed."

He laughed softly, sliding closer. "It was cute."

She groaned again, the pieces of her memory slowly slotting into place. "And did you?"

"Did I what?" He slid his hand along her bare thigh, exposed by the hem of her t-shirt.

She winced. " _Bang me like a firework_?" She only had to guess—she didn't remember (she'd been _really_ drunk) that she must've drawn a parallel from her birthday to the holiday it followed on the heels of.

He smiled. "I did _not_. I gave you two Advil, made you drink a glass of water, took off your jewelry, and tucked you in. I finished my book, then slept on the couch and was waiting with more Advil and another glass of water in the morning when you returned to the land of the living."

She groaned again, sliding back down onto her back. "I remember that now. That hangover was a _bitch_."

"And that's why when I finally got you out the door, you borrowed my sunglasses and we spent three hours in the Starbucks off Fifth."

" _Ugh_." _Bang me like a firework_? _God_ , that was _awful_. It had been a long time since she'd last felt embarrassed around him. " _God_. Did we at least have epic sex after that?"

He thought for a moment. "The next day. You had a pretty nasty headache."

" _Ugh_ , didn't even get birthday sex."

He snorted. "Uh, _no_. I'm a bit more thoughtful than taking advantage of a drunk girlfriend—" He raised a finger when she went to interrupt—"No matter how badly she thinks she wants it."

She groaned again, rolling against his side and hiding her face against his waist. "When did you get up? What time is it, even? _Holy fuck_."

"It's after ten. I was up around seven, checked the date, and went to see what I could scrounge up with the cash in my wallet. I'm afraid an actual gift will have to wait until we get home. I saw that at the florist's I found and remembered how much you liked foxes."

They were supposed to have been home a week ago, now. They'd been picking their way across the States for far too long.

Twenty-nine. She was twenty-nine.

"Getting home will be a gift enough."

He shook his head. "No. Mm-mm. My girl gets something tangible on her birthday. I'm making that a rule. You want something from Tiffany's to go along with your ring?"

She pressed her palm against the tightness of his abdominals. " _No_ , no more expensive jewelry."

"Why not?"

"Because. It's too—"

"I've got the money to blow, Darce. I could never spend it all, not the way I was raised. It means something different to me."

She made a grudging sound in her throat.

He sighed. "I'll find something."

He finally managed to drag her up out of bed. She got dressed and demanded they find a Starbucks, _ASAP_.

They managed to find a little hole-in-the-wall type of place, where she inhaled an omelet and burned her mouth on a chai latte, while Bucky laughed at her over his plate of blueberry pancakes. Coffee black, as usual.

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the sky was the same shade of blue as his eyes, and when he smiled, she felt her heart do the same little pitter-pat it did that first time she'd seen him, sitting sullenly in the lab and bleeding from a rapidly closing gash on his cheekbone.

The waitress smirked at his flirtatious mood and when they went to pay, she waved off the coffees and remarked that Darcy hold on tight, lest she let Bucky get away.

She rolled her eyes and held up her hand and let her know that she was stuck with him, either way.

They all had a nice, refreshing laugh, and they got back into the truck.

She gasped when she spotted a book store in a high-end strip mall and he indulged her, disappearing while she lost herself in the fantasy shelves.

They hopped back on the highway and drove for a few hours before stopping for lunch and continuing onwards.

Just as late afternoon was turning into evening, they found another roadside motel, this one cute and quirky, like something out of a cozy mystery novel, with a little bar attached that was absolutely blaring jukebox music.

They checked in and Bucky left her in the room to scope out the area.

She sighed, dropping down onto the bed with a curiously contented feeling.

Her birthday.

She was twenty-nine.

When had _that_ happened?!

Which was to say _nothing_ of all the horrific missing time that Bucky dealt with…

She sat up, taking a deep breath. Man, if they were home, Tony would've insisted on throwing a huge party, and they would've piled on their living room floor with oversized pillows and watched _Ghostbusters_ and destroyed at least half a dozen pizzas. Clint would've gotten drunk and Natasha would've dragged him off to crash at their place.

Jane would've left early to canoodle with Thor.

Pepper would've gotten antsy after only a few hours and started cleaning up and would miss the end of the movie.

Tony would've bought her something outrageous.

Bucky would've—

She blinked at the shopping bag on the small card table near the door. It was white, with a blue silky ribbon tying the paper handles together, like little boutiques liked to do—or Victoria's Secret.

With a raised eyebrow, she dragged herself up—God, she was sore from whatever that had been yesterday—and crossed over to it, tugging it slowly toward her, like she half expected it to burst onto her face like the _Facehugger_ from fucking _Alien_.

Tissue paper. In fluffy shades of gray and cloudy blue.

Was that a good sign or a bad one?

And at the bottom of it all, a little black dress.

It was gorgeous, all simple lines and a slim waist, the hem bordered with a tiny, thin metallic stripe. It had wide straps and a plunging sweetheart neckline.

She held it up, staring at it with not a small amount of awe.

The door opened.

She jumped.

"Just me," he said, smirking. "You found it, then? Figured you would."

She clutched it to herself defensively. "What the hell is this?!"

"We're goin' out, dollface. Get dressed."

She blinked. "What?"

"We're going out." He tossed another bag down on the bed. "So get dressed."

Feeling vaguely whiplashed, she stared at him. "Well…what…I…" She huffed. "How did you even guess my size?!"

He grinned. "I do fold the laundry once in a while, you know," he told her wryly. "It's kinda hard to miss. And besides—I come from a time when tailoring was, you know, a real thing, rather than an afterthought." He raised an eyebrow at her. "I've seen every inch of you. If I can't guess your measurements by now, then I haven't been paying attention—and I've been paying _very_ close attention." He pulled something out of the other bag and she saw more clothes, though she couldn't discern exactly what he'd done.

"But—"

"The joint next door is pretty nice. It's a club sort of thing. Food looks good. Impromptu date night."

Her brain was telling her to be impressed, but her mouth was still a few steps back. "Just how much cash did you bring on this trip?!"

He shrugged. "You never know what kind of crap you're gonna run into. I brought _enough_." He crossed the room back to her and took her elbows in his palms, walking her across the room again with him. "Now go get dressed, dollface."

She hesitated. "There's no way this is gonna fit me, Jamie," she argued.

"If it does, do I get to buy you whatever I want?"

She huffed again. "It doesn't matter—it won't fit. I'm too curvy for this."

"Your curves are just right." He gave her a little swat on the butt. "Now go on." He shoved her gently into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. "I want the full effect when you come out."

For another minute, she stood there in the doorway, holding the dress limply in one hand, and staring down at it like it was a foreign creature.

Sighing resignedly, she pulled off her t-shirt and shorts, toed off her sandals and adjusted her bra, glad they'd stopped a few times along the way for more suitable clothes than the ones he'd been forced to work with after their abrupt departure from Hawaii.

Hawaii.

She sighed again, wistfully, as she stepped into the dress and pulled it up over her hips.

Too small.

She'd known it was going to be too small.

She'd tried to tell hi—

The zipper slid smoothly up her back and she scowled at herself in the mirror.

Damn him to hell.

As soon as the thought occurred, she winced. He'd already been there. He'd been there and he'd managed to claw his way back. The sentiment was empty now.

She flung the door open. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," was his usual answer, his back to her as he buttoned up a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And those dark gray khakis he'd found were perfectly fitted, not too dressy, pretty casual—how did he make everything look so blasted _easy_?!

He turned.

She fidgeted as she stood there, could feel his eyes like two warm spots on her bare feet, then her shins, and her thighs, half exposed by the medium hem of the dress. They paused on her hips and her waist, before climbing the rest of the way up, her neck, then her face, where they stopped.

"Hm," he hummed, a soft smile lingering in his eyes and curling one side of his mouth.

"What?" she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

He took a step toward her. "Nothing. It's just even better than I expected, that's all."

She swallowed hard, her cheeks pinking with heat. "Oh. You, um…look nice. Well, nicer than usual, which isn't really a stretch, since you somehow manage to look good even when we're on the run and you're bleeding from some long-healed wound on your shoulder, and—"

He stepped across the room and silenced her with a kiss, soft, and sweet, his hands coming up to cup her face.

When he released her, she couldn't stop the little breathless gasp from escaping. " _Oh_."

"You were babbling," he murmured, his blue, blue eyes so close.

She nodded, her heart racing in her chest. "So I was."

He smiled. "Why are you nervous? It's just me."

She cleared her throat, stepping out of his embrace to smooth the lines of the dress. "Dunno. Let me, um…let me just brush my hair and…and stuff." She grabbed her bag from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. "Good thing we've done some shopping on our travels…"

She pulled her hair back in a simple clip, securing it in a boho style at the back of her head, then swiped on some eyeliner and a little lip crayon in a deep, matte red.

She rubbed on a little lily perfume with shaking hands and adjusted her ring on her finger, twisting it one way, then the other.

"Get it together, Darcy," she muttered to her reflection.

When she went out, he was waiting for her, leaning back against the door with his arms folded over his muscled chest. "Ready?"

His slip-on sneakers somehow brought the look down just the right notch and his hair was falling in his face just so that she wanted to run her fingers through it again.

She nodded, and he took her hand loosely in his and closed the door behind them.

He was right: the thing she'd thought was a bar, was really a casual little nightclub. Clearly, during their early afternoon hours, they were just another burger place off the highway, beer on tap and a jukebox. But now that the sun was setting into early evening, the place was filling up with people dressed similarly to them, a dress casual sort, sandals and dresses, shirts and shorts.

They slid into a booth in the back, just within view of the small dance floor, where the waitresses were convening a quick pre-rush meeting, flicking their hair back and adjusting their aprons over their black matchstick pants.

One of them traced their progress, her eyes on Bucky, but Darcy just smirked, unthreatened. She'd married a real hottie.

Luckily, the waitress they got was another, with a ring already on her finger and a neat, studied air, like a recent college grad, a little like Darcy in her bookish glasses. She took their order and Darcy watched the other groups of people, laughing, talking, a small gaggle that gathered on the dance floor to shuffle around a little bit, her hand clutched loosely in Bucky's warm, human one.

When they were out in a large place like this, he tried to keep the techno thriller appendage as subtle as possible and rarely reacted when someone openly noticed it.

He wasn't ashamed of it. It irked him more than anything else, the reminder of the enemy he'd been forced to fight for, the Soviet star, bright, bloody red on his shoulder. He was saved a bit of effort this time by the longer sleeves he wore. But the one waitress, the blond, she noticed it, and she stared, fascinated, her eyes pitched for long-distance flirtation, not that Bucky noticed.

Their food came.

"So, I'm thinking London. Paris, maybe?" Bucky began. "Somewhere not in the States. Maybe somewhere more exotic would be the key, here." He took a sip of his water. "Maybe Australia?"

She blinked, slicing her steak and setting her knife down. "What are you talking about?"

He popped a fry in his mouth. "Honeymoon Plan B. Where do you wanna go?"

She snorted, shaking her head. " _No_. Nope, sorry. All attempts are cancelled at this point, babe. Maybe next year, when the goons you've carved up have forgotten about us or been bullied by someone fresh and new."

He chuckled. "C'mon. I don't give up easily. You know that. We're going to have a solid block of no running from bad guys, I'm _determined_. Site seeing, food, shopping—no bad guys."

She sighed. "You _really_ wanna chance it?"

He popped another fry in his mouth. "Yes."

"But is this really what our marriage is going to be? I mean, _really_? I mean, don't get me wrong: you're talking to a girl who must be head over heels, because she thought she'd be the _last_ person she'd see marry _anyone_. And I'd rather spend my life running around with you than doing anything else, including being safe and sound and _bored_ in New York. But…"

He smirked. " _But_?"

She sighed again, putting her fork down. "It's just…That doesn't mean I'm averse to a little normal…domesticity. You know? It would be nice to have a period in our relationship where things are normal and work and dinner and sleeping together for longer than, you know…two weeks."

His smile dimmed a little. "I know. I'm sorry."

" _Ugh_!" she huffed, picking up her knife again and rolling her eyes. "There you go again, blaming yourself. _Stop_ it! I _chose_ this, remember? _All_ of it. I followed after Jane on purpose, not that she fucking cared." But she shook it off. "It's just that I want some time to rest. You know? To figure out what's going on in my body and to get some training in and to settle into a project with Tony, you know? To be able to appreciate the idea that I have someone to wake up to now, you know? _Officially_. I want to…change my name, and…I want you to teach me to cook, and…and to have movie nights with the gang and just…just be normal, now. Is that weird?"

His eyes softened and he looked achingly affectionate. He shook his head. "No. That's not weird."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the other patrons laugh it up as they shuffled around to the whining strains of _Careless Whisper_.

"George Michael?" he asked.

"Almost. Wham."

They shared dessert and battled with their forks over the last bite of Whiskey Cake, but Darcy suspected that Bucky let her win.

The sunset was glowing now, lancing in the quaint, shuttered windows in golden shafts and lighting up his hair.

And when soft piano started up, he slid off his chair and held out his hand, no words needed.

She stood, blushing, and smoothed the lines of her dress again, looping her hand around his elbow.

 _Wise men say/only fools rush in. But I can't help/falling in love with you_.

"This was the song my parents danced to," she scoffed as he took up her left hand in his right.

"Well, this doesn't sound like Elvis," was his low rebuttal.

And it wasn't. It was a girl, with a deep voice, and she sang with an aching pull of feeling.

Darcy swallowed hard.

 _Like a river flows/surely to the sea/darling, so it goes/some things…are meant to be_.

She took a deep, shuddering breath as his arm tightened around her waist and he pulled her closer, shifting her hand into his, where he cupped it over his heart, his eyes only on her.

She had the sharp sensation that they were the only two people in the room, the only two people on earth, though she could see others drifting around them out of the corner of her eye.

For a moment, she worried everyone would stare, but she could hear talking going on around them, the clinking of glass and silverware.

No one was watching, no one cared.

 _Take my hand/take my whole life too/for I can't help/falling in love with you_.

She'd never have expected the cold, detached killing machine that was the Winter Soldier of looking so…she didn't have a word for the look on his face.

Affection.

Boundless devotion.

Like she was the answer to every single question he'd ever had.

How had she gone from careless, blithe college grad to… _this_? And so quickly. Under two years.

The perfection of the moment was staggering and for a second, she was distracted and thought she might trip over him—

But he righted her with a simple tightening of his arm around her waist and a little curve of his mouth.

The sunlight blazed in his eyes, giving the appearance that they glowed from within before winking out below the horizon.

 _Oh, for I, I can't help/falling in love with you_.

((()))

Natasha watched them from a back corner, hidden deep in the shadows of her booth.

She thought her heart might burst from her chest, and through sheer force of will she kept it from cracking open.

She'd been following them for the past few hundred miles, since only two days prior. She knew Bucky would be annoyed that someone— _anyone_ —had managed to track them down again, which was why she'd taken to shadowing them, just as a precaution—at least for the time being.

She smiled at Darcy's pink cheeks. Her friend was confident, and a lot—a _lot_ —of things didn't rattle her the way they would other people. _Most_ other people.

But Bucky Barnes had a way of tearing down all her defenses with just a look.

She swallowed hard, listening to the dreamy, aching Elvis cover blasting out of the jukebox in the corner, and finally caved, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She dialed blindly and held up the phone.

"Tasha."

The breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding finally eased the tense pressure in her body and she sighed. "Rogers."

"Where are you?"

"Relax, Rogers. I'm fine.

He didn't take that as enough of an answer. "Where _are_ you?" he repeated.

"Somewhere in Missouri. I found them."

"You _found_ them?!" There was an indistinct clatter in the background, and muffled voices.

"I found them."

"Well—"

More clamoring around. "Tell Tony they're just fine."

"They're fine, Stark."

She grinned despite herself.

"You're alright?" Steve asked, his voice low, muffled movement in the background telling her he was likely moving away from the nervous inventor and out into a hallway. He sounded so concerned and tender that her heart squeezed again, a painful reminder that not only were they separated, but that she wasn't supposed to be letting herself enjoy these silly, melodramatic moments in her life.

Or was she?  
She sighed. "I'm fine. I miss you."

A pause on the other end of the line. "I miss you. I can…meet you?" he offered, a sad sort of resignation in his voice even as he spoke the words.

"It's okay, Rogers. I'll be fine."

"You don't _sound_ fine."

Bucky shifted Darcy's hand and settled it against his heart. "Yeah, well, two of my friends are having a rare moment of peace and it made me homesick—what's it to ya?"

Steve gave a husky little laugh. "Didn't mean to step on your toes, there, Romanoff."

She smiled, shifting the phone to her other ear so she could continue her salad. It was good, but she found herself just picking at it, her appetite dissolved.

"Moment of _what_? _Peace_? _Those_ two?"

She glanced over at them again, the damn song eternally long. "Don't get me wrong—the way Buck's acting, it's clear they've been dogged. Looks like he's had a pole shoved up his back, like that singer. But right now, we're tail free and the three of us are sharing dinner."

"She's _with_ them?!" Tony's voice in the background, an unmistakable, totally unveiled thread of desperation in his tone.

"Stark, for God's sake—"

" _No_. No, I'm not," she interrupted before they could start their usual bickering. "I haven't revealed myself yet. They look like they…need a minute."

"Besides, what singer has a pole up her back?" Steve asked, confused, totally missing the reference, as usual.

"Gloria Estefan," Tony inserted, not missing a beat.

"Oh." Pause. "Wait- _who_?"

"But they're _okay_?" Tony interrupted again. "Darcy's—"

"She looks fine," she interjected, unsure just how to sooth his totally frayed nerves to any true satisfaction. Only Darcy standing in front of him, alive and whole, was going to do that, she was fairly certain. "She looks exhausted, but…fine."

"And Buck?" Steve cut in, sounding a bit wounded.

"The same. A little pale. But fine."

"Bruce!" Tony shouted, his voice fading from the background.

Steve sighed. "He's been driving me up a _wall_ …"

She smiled, glancing up out the window. No change to the cars in the lot. The sun was cutting through the blinds at a weirdly picturesque angle and picking out the highlights in Bucky's hair. "He's just worried."

"I mean, I know how he feels about Darcy, but he's acting like—"

"A father," she finished. "Making up for lost time. He's reeling from that on top of everything else." She forced another forkful into her mouth and chewed dutifully. "How's Hill handling all this?"

"'Bout as well as you'd expect," Steve replied, his voice grim. "Thinks we should be focusing on some Cuban drug lord who's selling Chitauri weapons on the side—"

"Why doesn't she just leave that to the FBI? You've been working with them on and off months."

"That's what Clint tried to tell her."

"But…?" She could hear it coming.

"But you _know_ how she is; she's like a dog with a bone. It's like she feels so guilty about last spring, she'd rather dig herself in deeper than face it head-on. Sam's furious with her. Tony can't even look at her. She's got no allies here at the moment. There are no other jobs until the team's whole again. Right, Tony?"

"Damn straight, Rogers," came Tony's distant voice.

Natasha couldn't help but smile. The one thing the boy's shared—love for their team. They shared leadership of the gang, and, conversely, it was usually what contributed to all their bickering. But sometimes, their solidarity paid off. She rolled her eyes. _Men_. If only they could work like this all the time. "Someone needs to remind her that, now that Fury's gone, temporary leadership is out of her hands."

"Tony rebuilt SHIELD in his absence. I'll…send out a memo."

She snorted.

"You hear from Nick lately?"

She sighed again, sitting back and putting down her fork. "Not so far."

They sat for a long moment in silence with each other, and Natasha let her eyes slip closed, finally giving in, retreating, and let herself imagine that she was sitting on the couch in their suite, Dostoyevsky open in her lap. And Steve would come up behind her and settle the blanket over her shoulders and press a kiss to the top of her head, his palms warm against her chilled arms.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice unbearably soft.

"Cold."

"I'm sorry."

"How about you?"

His voice softened further, hushed and low. "I can't sleep without you in the bed."

She smiled. "Buck up, Rogers. You did it in the army."

He laughed. "Listen, I…I should go. Tony and Bruce are looking into Darcy's reactions to all this, and they're gonna need a third set of eyes."

Her heart pinched and she bit her lip. "Okay. Make sure you tell them that she looks okay. Not _good_ , but…strong enough. She's taken care of."

"I wouldn't expect anything else," he replied, a smile in his voice. "I love you."

"Love you."

"Roger that."

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Steve."

((()))

Jane stared into the flickering flames that danced in the fireplace before her. It was summer in New York, but Thor had the air blasted to Arctic temperatures, and rather than break his heart and turn it down, she'd opted to make a fire. It was cozy, after all, and it wasn't like a fire pit was an option when you were camping. This was no different. She tugged her long-sleeve flannel more tightly shut and sighed, frowning broodingly as the Norseman in question puttered around in the kitchen behind her.

A memory was nagging at her, dredged up by Tony Stark's digging around in the muck. She'd tried shoving it back down all day, pushing it back under the mud of her memory, but it insisted on having its day.

"Jane."

She swallowed, folding a lock of her brown hair behind her ear as she stood awkwardly in the hallway. "Darcy."

Darcy stood leaning on the door of her apartment, her face passive and her eyes a bright mix of ambivalent and annoyed. "What's up? We were about to put on _Game of Thrones_."

She nodded, her heart sinking just a little. Bucky was there. Of course he was, she was an _idiot_ —it was his place for God's sake. "Oh. Okay."

"Come on in," Bucky called from deeper in the suite.

Darcy flinched.

Jane shrugged, already taking a step back. "I can come ba—"

"For God's sake, Foster, just come in," Bucky repeated, sounding one part annoyed and one part bemused. "I don't bite."

Jane hesitated in the hallway, bumbling as Darcy watched her, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement at her friend's squirming. "Don't worry, Jane—I won't let him suck your blood," she snarked.

"Darcy," Bucky scolded.

His fiancée rolled her eyes. "I guess you should come in, then, before he huffs and puffs and blows the building down."

A loud sigh from within.

Darcy held the door wider.

Jane inched her way over the threshold, looking around. She hadn't been in here yet and she wasn't sure what to expect. Ammo strewn about, guns everywhere…

But it was clean— _Spartan_ , in fact.

There was steam wafting in the kitchen, drawing her eye, and Jane glanced over to find Bucky at the island, pulling boxes of tea from a drawer. His white v-neck tee looked soft and his hair—loosely waving around his face—even softer. His jaw was scruffy, but he looked over at her with clear, blue eyes. "Just making tea—nothing sinister." He smirked playfully at her.

She flinched, edging further in. There was a blue runner leading in from the doorway, thick and cushioned beneath her flats. The hardwood floors in the kitchen abruptly cut off, much like in her apartment, and switched to thick, luxurious carpeting.

The couch faced the large, wall-mounted TV, a coffee table between them. One lounger faced diagonally beside it, but the other had been moved across the room to face the long, floor-to-ceiling window that was the star of the suite, really, the drapes flung wide to reveal the deep night cityscape of Manhattan. There were blankets draped across each cushioned surface and Jane wondered if Bucky was cold all the time as a result of his conditioning. Was it psychosomatic?

Darcy shut the door behind her with a soft snap. "Do we have any Chamomile left?" she asked.

Bucky sighed, pulling out a teabag. "Last one."

"Were you gonna have it?"

A single brow went up and he gave her that playful, flirtatious smirk again. "Mm…wasn't sure. Whatcha gonna gimme if I letcha have it?"

Darcy laughed, crossing the entryway to lean across the counter and peck him on the cheek.

He narrowed his eyes as the kettle started whistling behind him on the stovetop. "Hm. Not sure if I accept the payment…What else ya got?"

She rolled her eyes, swatting him softly on the chest. "How 'bout an IOU for later, Soldier Boy?"

He grinned—the full, megawatt one—and the cheerful effect of it nearly set Jane back on her heels. She'd never seen him do that before, not like _that_ … "I _suppose_ that should suffice."

Darcy snorted, skirting around him—God, Jane had forgotten how _big_ he seemed, even though he was of relatively average height—and shut off the stovetop. "Don't go getting any crazy ideas, Sergeant Barnes."

He huffed another falsely aggrieved sigh. "I _suppose_ I could have Egyptian Mint." Then he looked up at her. "Tea, Jane?"

She jumped. "Uh…no."

Darcy shook her head, chuckling. "God, Jane, relax. You don't get much more boring than making tea. Christ."

Swallowing her nerves, she perched on the edge of the lounger, watching as the menu for the fourth season of _Game of Thrones_ played on repeat on the TV.

"So what can we do ya for, doc?" Darcy finally offered, pouring the steaming water into two mugs.

"Ah!" Bucky hissed, yanking his hand back and shaking it out.

Horrified, Darcy gasped, staring at him. "Did I burn you?!"

But he laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm just messing with you."

Now it was Darcy's turn to huff. Hands occupied with the kettle, she shoved her hip against him, pushing him over on one leg, where he rebalanced. "You _jerkface_!" But she was laughing. "Careful—your fiancé's got a kettle full of _boiling_ water. You wouldn't wanna piss her off, would you?"

But Bucky was incorrigible. "But she's so cute when she's flustered!"

Darcy rolled her eyes, smirking as she looked up at Jane. "He's in a good mood. You can tell by the way he teases me relentlessly."

Bucky snickered.

She set the kettle back on the stove. "Quick, Jane—say your piece before Mr. Hyde returns."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but took both mugs and crossed the room toward the couch. "Darcy, for God's sake."

Darcy flopped down next to him, settling against his side, and tucking her bare legs up under her. "Seriously—what's up? You look like you swallowed a cat."

Bucky made a show of setting the mugs down on the coffee table on two coasters, but Jane could tell he was giving her a minute.

Still, she hesitated, watching him.

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and shook it out over Darcy's legs, then retrieved the remote from the lower shelf of the coffee table.

Darcy blinked. "Jane?"

She jerked, finally meeting her former intern's eyes. "Um…"

When her gaze wandered back to Bucky, he finally gave her a small smile. "Why don't I go for a wa—"

" _No_ ," Darcy said, and her tone had finally settled into one of commanding as she set her hand on his knee. "Whatever she came here to say she's going to have to say to both of us." She looked over at Jane again, her expression carefully neutral, but with a slightly challenging glint in her eyes.

Like she'd known all along.

"Right, Jane? Go ahead."

Jane indeed felt rather like she'd swallowed a cat. "Um…I just…wanted to…apologize."

Darcy nodded, but said nothing.

Bucky hit a button on the remote, studiously giving them a moment.

"Yeah. An apology."

Darcy frowned, reaching up with one hand to press at the brow bone over her right eye. "Okay, Jane. Anything else?"

Bucky got up.

Darcy slumped over against the arm rest.

"Um." Jane shifted, unfamiliar with these sorts of conversations and feeling entirely lost. "No. That was…it."

Darcy snorted.

Bucky shut a kitchen drawer and crossed the room to them again, holding something out for Darcy.

She frowned in confusion and blinked at him. "What's this for?"

"Your headache," he replied matter-of-factly, taking her hips and moving her back over again so he could reclaim his place on the couch.

She blinked again, perplexed. "How did you…? You know what—never mind. Of _course_ you knew." Shaking her head, she unscrewed the lid and popped an Advil into her mouth, taking a sip of her tea as Bucky offered it up without question.

"You are always two steps ahead of me," she muttered after she swallowed.

Bucky flushed a bit. "Does that drive you nuts?"

She smiled and leaned her head back against his shoulder. "No."

Jane watched them, feeling increasingly awkward.

"You take good care of me," Darcy murmured.

Bucky settled his hand on her thigh and squeezed.

Jane tried not to flush. "Should I go?"

Darcy sighed. "I dunno, Jane. Is that the only reason you stopped by?"

Jane hesitated—again—looking around at the space.

There was a shelf against one wall, wide and long, and one half was taken up by DVD's, the other books. There were two lonely spaces on that side, and her eyes searched out the culprits for only a moment before she found them on the kitchen island: a tattered copy of the fourth Harry Potter book and _To Kill A Mockingbird_. She wondered which one of them was reading which. Of course, Darcy had always been a huge Harry Potter fan, if Jane recalled her rambling clearly enough.

She had a hard time picturing Bucky reading—then again, she had a hard time picturing Bucky doing anything other than sighting along a high-powered rifle.

"Jane."

She jumped again, and scurried for the door. "Okay. Um. Night."

"I shut the door behind me and I didn't look back," she muttered now, staring into the flickering flames. " _Why_ didn't I go back?"

"What was that, my love?" Thor asked, looking up with a frown as he poured something into a mug.

She watched his reflection in the polished stone of the fireplace. "What are you doing?"

"Making tea. Would you like some of your chamomile?"

And he looked so sweet and unassuming and earnest, that she flinched, reminded of Bucky, teasing her best friend. "Tony was right."

Thor crossed the room with his mug—likely full of his favorite Lemon Zinger—and perched on the arm of her chair. "About what? Stark is usually right about many things. For all of what Steven considers his faults, the man is a genius." He smirked. "Sometimes he reminds me a bit of Loki."

Jane scowled.

"For all of his particular faults, Loki was highly intelligent. He asked for vindication and nothing more, and it was something none of us was ever able to grant him." He frowned into the flames himself then, drifting in thought.

"I lost Darcy," Jane muttered, only half hearing him.

Thor surprised her, offering neither comfort nor excuse. "Yes, Jane. You may have."

She jerked, looking up at him. "I'm not okay with that."

Thor shrugged. "I should not expect you to be. If it be the case, however, it was over a noble reason."

"Me hating Bucky is noble?"

He finally turned his head and looked at her, then, and his expression was even, unforgiving, and honest. "No. What is noble is Darcy having the courage to stand up to her friends and let her heart do the choosing for her."

Jane slumped deeper into the chair. "Was I total bitch?"

He slid his hand over her shoulder and squeezed. "I would not use that particular Midgardian term. However, I believe _Darcy_ might."

" _Ugh_." She huffed irritably at his riddles. "Just talk straight for once!"

Thor sighed. "Jane, my love, you attempted to protect your friend. And while that is noble in itself, you attempted to do so when she had no need of protection. And you did it so vigilantly, that the very person you sought to protect her from turned out to be the one she ran to protection for—from _you_."

"I just don't understand why everyone is so _comfortable_ with him! The only time I'm okay around him is when I'm _drunk_! And that's _saying_ something after all the stuff I've gone through with you!"

Thor smirked.

"You're all so ready to accept him!"

"You all accepted an alien from another planet into your midst—you welcomed him into your _bed_ , as well."

She rolled her eyes. "That's _totally_ different!"

" _How_ , Jane?" he asked, standing. "There are those out there who might call it worse."

"Worse than sleeping with a _sniper assassin_?!" she snapped.

Thor smiled. "You forget, Jane, the purpose of a sniper in war."

She clenched her jaw shut. "What?"

"To seek high ground in order to better protect his men from unseen threats. Steven will tell you he was quite good at it in their war. He would certainly not have been kept alive by the enemy and honed if he were not. Now he is nearly infallible."

She waved her hands. " _That's_ what scares me!"

"It should not," he insisted.

" _Why the hell not_?!"

" _Because he is not your enemy, Jane_!"

"It _feels_ like he is!"

Thor pressed his free palm to his forehead in a rare show of frustration. " _Why_? Can you not trust the judgment of your lover? I should think myself able of determining our enemies after _centuries_ of life, Jane."

She chewed on her lip, wanting to argue about Loki, but thought it best not to bring it up. "I just…I just…" She sighed. "Darcy and I…when the Triskelion fell…we were there."

"I know, Jane. I worried for you."

"And Darcy wouldn't leave Steve's side. She was so…And Steve, he…" She picked at a stray bit of string on her blanket. "Steve was half dead when they brought him in. Said he'd have died, if someone hadn't pulled him out of the Potomac."

Thor's expression changed, softening only slightly as he looked down at her with his jaw clenched. "Do you know who pulled him from the water, Jane?"

She scowled into the fire again. "No. Sam?"

"James."

Her head snapped toward him and she stared at him, face slack in surprise. " _Bucky_?"

Thor nodded. "Indeed. They traded blows until Steven was able to break him free of his manipulation. He has not said how he did it. But his words have implied enough of James' horror to convince me of his clear-headedness. If some foul conditioning remains, it is not of his choosing, and it certainly is not something that can be easily removed, Jane. But he was conscious enough to pull his brother from the water that day, even when injured himself."

"He was hurt?"

"Steven broke his human arm."

"And they're not brothers, Thor."

The Norseman cocked his head and studied her with those keen eyes of his. "Are they not?"

For a long moment, they stared at each other.

"But he's…he's _okay_? I mean, for just random, civilian life? He's been cleared? And he's over there with Darcy all alone, and she's—"

"Darcy is perfectly capable of making her own choices, Jane. She's a level-headed and intelligent woman, much deserving a good man, from what I've observed. And James is such."

She implored him, finally standing and gesturing wildly. "But how can you be sure?"

Thor sighed. "Have you not observed them?"

"Yes."

But Thor shook his head. "If you truly had, you would cease this questioning."

She snorted, but in her mind, she saw them again, all cuddled up the way they'd been that day, looking cozy and affectionate. And he'd gotten her something for her headache when she hadn't said a word about it. "That's practically what Stark said."

"Because Stark is no fool. Only a fool would miss the devotion in his eyes when he looks at Darcy. Should any of us have the right to tell him he has not suffered enough to earn a bit of happiness, Jane?"

Stung, she snapped her mouth shut. "So I'm a fool?"

He sighed again. "Jane, you are…so _very_ intelligent. But sometimes you…what's the Midgardian phrase? You miss the forest for the trees, my love. You fail to see what is right in front of you. This time it may have cost you Darcy."


	17. Chapter 17: Don't You Wanna Stay

**Leaving On A Jet Plane** **MarvelLitChick**

 **Chapter Management** **  
Chapter 17** **: Don't You Wanna Stay**

 **Summary:** **Hello! I'm back! A little late, sorry guys! I'll make this short and sweet: I'm on vacation for the next week and a half, so I might even post another chapter in the next few days. No promises. This one's pretty compact at eighteen pages, that's about two scenes. Sorry if that's a bit short, but I think the two scenes really pack a punch. They really set the stage for the third part of the story, here, so get those brain's turning! Again, anyone with ideas, throw 'em my way. Hope you all saw the Thor 3 trailers out there (I loved the Loki's reveal and I seriously keep trying to think up ways to write him so it won't feel unoriginal-he's always been my favorite) and I hope you're all enjoying your Game of Thrones (I know I am, and I think Lady Olenna's an even bigger badass than before!) Anyway! Hope you guys like this one. There's some action, followed by some angst. Let me know how you like! Love y'all!**  
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Bucky hooked his finger around the upper edge, and quietly shuffled the page, turning it as deftly as possible.

Darcy sighed in her sleep beside him.

He winced, waiting for her to wake. She was such a light sleeper now, he was hard pressed not to wake her just shifting in the bed. Half the time, now, she'd lurch awake, eyes wide in panic.

But she just settled deeper into her pillow and stilled again.

He smiled, smoothing the next page of _Harry Potter_ and continuing on. He'd read it twice already, but it was all he'd grabbed two weeks ago, for Darcy to distract herself with. Besides, this one was the best one and he didn't mind rereading it, even at two in the morning.

Again, the cool, cloying sensation of homesickness tingled through him, and he swallowed, frowning at the feeling of suction in his chest.

He could almost pretend—here, in this spare, dusty motel room—that they were home, in their Stark Tower suite, the New York skyline out their window and Darcy asleep across the room while he read in his favorite chair in the corner, turning pages and listening to the soft sound of her breathing.

But they weren't home.

They were in some cold, random truck stop motel in the Middle-Of-Nowhere, Illinois. They'd spent the day staring out at nothing but flat fields, some with corn, some without, and Darcy had fiddled with the radio, searching out good music that she could sing along with at the top of lungs from the passenger seat.

He smirked.

At least she was finding ways to have fun with this, no matter how small they were.

He looked down at her again, a lock of her waving brown hair fallen over her face. His fingers itched to sweep it back, behind her ear, but he resisted the urge.

She was so heartbreakingly beautiful, sometimes looking at her hurt. Sometimes, just the _idea_ of her hurt.

That he couldn't have met her then.

That things had turned out the way they had.

That it felt as though she had given up so much just for him.

He still wasn't sure he was comfortable with that—in fact, he _knew_ he wasn't comfortable with it. Half the people in that building flinched when they saw him, and while he had come to expect it, it bothered him that Darcy invoked a similar reaction, if not one that bordered on ridicule.

It was odd, he thought, that an organization that thrived on the earth's most sensitive secrets could find it so hard to believe something they hadn't seen with their own eyes.

He wasn't sure what else he could do to prove to them all that he was…while maybe not entirely _sane_ , certainly _stable_.

Darcy's voice in his head chided him softly at the idea that he wasn't lucid.

But these new memories in his head certainly weren't helping, and he worried they were getting in the way of him keeping her safe.

He hadn't gotten a burner phone.

He'd checked each and every one of their vehicles so far for anything resembling a tracking device.

Darcy had no marks on her.

So how were they finding them, over and over, so consistently?

And what did they want? They'd already lost her. They had to know that Bucky would defend her to the death, and they knew killing him would be highly difficult…So.

Where did that leave them?

Groaning softly, he tossed the book aside and pulled a hand tiredly down his face. He just wanted to go home, sleep in their bed, maybe a little sex in the shower…Was that _really_ so much to ask—

He jerked, a sound making him cock his head, his ear turned to the parking lot outside their window, where the curtains were thin and filmy, perfect for spying through.

Nothing to see, and he narrowed his eyes at the large picture window, considering.

Very gently, he eased off the bed, snatching up his discarded t-shirt as he went. Good thing he'd left his lounge pants on.

There it was again. A car door?

A cocking rifle?

A detonator?

"Get it together, Barnes," he muttered under his breath, retrieving his trusty SIG from the front table and folding his human hand around it. He still couldn't decide—after all these years—if it was a good thing or a bad thing that his dominant hand had been the one to remain human.

Funny, too, that even the mechanical left hadn't made him ambidextrous. He did have a rhythm down, an instinctive functionality to lean on that left side during a fight. But he still found himself relying on his right all too often, his guns just finding themselves there as though they felt more comfortable against the heat of his human skin.

He didn't need to check the clip. He'd just done that before he'd gotten in bed, along with threading on his silencer. Just in case.

He'd learned the hard way, after all…

But his index finger folded around the trigger and settled there, steady and sure.

Another sound—this one definitely a car door. It was soft, meant to keep quiet, but it didn't work against his enhanced hearing.

And there it was—the adrenaline rushed out and through his blood, caught on the rapid current in his veins, igniting every new nerve ending they'd given him, every new instinct, every open neuron until the Winter Soldier was straining just below the surface of his skin, and he took a deep breath, closing the hand they'd given him around the lock on their door and flicking it open.

Footsteps.

He wrapped that hand around the doorknob, twisting as slowly as possible—he didn't want to give away his position.

He took that one second to empty his lungs of air, pushing it out, and he centered himself, his routine since that first sniper mission with the boys all those decades and decades ago, pulling his focus taut and shutting down his rapid pulse until his breathing was even and his concentration clear and sharp.

Then he threw the door open, revealing two men in tac gear, their helmets off—overconfident idiots—and their faces exposed, rifles drawn and level.

He fired without thinking and was already swinging, taking aim at the second merc before the first had crumpled to the ground, a neat red hole in his forehead.

" _Whoa_!" the second one shouted, voice sharp in the silent night, and he dropped his gun, hands flying up as he waved them in the air. " _Whoa_ , man! Hold up!"

He paused, staring him down with a scowl, the scowl that Darcy had often called 'fucking terrifying', silent, his rage burning under his skin.

It was funny. Times like this, _The Other Guy_ —as Bruce put it—really did take over to a certain extent, and often, he wasn't completely aware of what he was doing at all times, flying simply by instinct and nothing more. He realized now, belatedly, just how angry he was, illustrated by the fact that his hands didn't shake, his aim rock solid, his composure eerily steady, even to himself.

" _Jesus_!" The other man in black folded to set his hands on his knees and he bent, trying to catch his breath, staring at his partner with his mouth open. "You killed Kevin!"

Silent, his hand clenched around his weapon, then eased.

" _Seriously_ —you killed _Kevin_!" he insisted, breathless, his voice high-pitched and quavering.

Bucky raised one brow, staring impassively down at him. "That's what happens when you shoot someone in the head."

English?

Yeah, he was speaking English.

Sometimes, when tension was high, he wasn't certain just what was going to come out of his mouth. Once or twice, he'd found Russian on his lips without making any conscious decision to use it. That creeped him out more than almost anything else, that his mind still wasn't entirely his own.

" _Fuck_ , man," the merc said again.

"You're not very good at your job," Bucky spoke again, his voice low and even.

He looked up at him, his face drained of color. "Man, I'm not here to fight you. I just need the girl."

Bucky cocked his head and studied him, silent. Something else Darcy had mentioned, off-handedly, of course: that nothing was creepier than his silent scorn in those recordings from DC. Sometimes it paid to take things into consideration.

And it had the desired effect.

The other merc fell to his knees, his Adams apple bobbing. " _Don't_ kill me, man! I was just sent for the _girl_! That's _it_!"

Bucky took a step forward, then another, still silent, and placed the tip of the SIG against his forehead. Some small part of him felt a strange niggle of pleasure at the full-body tremble this elicited. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. "Your Skorpion says otherwise."

He shuddered again. "It's just standard gear, man, it's just standard gear!"

He cocked his head the other way, studying his reaction. "That's awfully expensive standard gear."

"Man, I just do what the boss says!"

He narrowed his eyes. "Aldrich Killian, you mean?"

He nodded vigorously, shaking all over. "He just wants the girl back, he just wants the girl!"

His hand tightened around the SIG and he pressed the muzzle harder against the coward's forehead, increasing the shaking even more. "He can't _have_ the girl. She's _mine_."

It came out more growl than words, and with a start, he realized how possessive it sounded.

The merc slumped further, his eyes slipping closed. " _Shit_ , man. He's gonna _kill_ me—he's gonna _kill_ me if I don't get her back!"

The rage gathered in a spike and he snarled, stepping closer still and shoving the muzzle into him, forcing his head back so he had no choice but to look up into his blazing eyes, blind with anger. " _I'll_ kill you before I let you take her from me."

He actually whimpered. "I did _not_ sign up for this!"

"Then next time, when Aldrich Killian tells you to sign on the dotted line, you put down the pen. See how this works?"

He shrugged. "You wanna kill me, it'll at least be faster coming from the Winter Soldier."

Bucky smiled, using all his teeth. "I wouldn't say that."

The merc swallowed reflexively. "I can tell you _anything_ you wanna know! _Anything_!"

He paused, considering. "How'd you find us?"

Another hopeless shrug. "I dunno, man! They told us to get in the car and they sent us an address while we were en route!"

"What's he want with her?!"

"He didn't tell us that! Just that she's supposed to be important—soon."

He cocked his head again. " _Soon_?"

"That's all I know, man! That's all I know! I dunno when, he just said ' _soon'_. He wants her back so he can finish her and do the same creepy testing he was doing with the other ones and—"

He snarled again, unable to stop the involuntary reaction. "The _other_ ones?"

Another reflexive swallow, so thick he could hear it. "Yeah, man, he's got other ones—but, but, they're not as good as she is, 'cause there's something else wrong with her!"

His eyes narrowed again, and he stepped in closer. " _What's_ wrong with her?" He needed to confirm what else he knew, what else Killian understood.

"There's some other serum in her, man! She's supposed to be some sort of hybrid, and he wants her back so he can make the others like her! That's all I know, man—he just sent me out to get her back! He just wants the girl back! _That's it_!"

"Who else is after us?!"

Another stuttering shrug. "I dunno, man! He just sends us out in groups! I dunno how or where, dude—I just signed up 'cause the money was good and I haven't been able to find a job since I left the Navy! That's it! That's all I know!"

For an interminably long moment, he stood there, this new information whipping around in his head at rapid fire, indecision warring with grim certainty that he couldn't feasibly let the merc in front of him live.

Besides—he was right. Killian would likely just kill him anyway.

 _The Winter Soldier_ wouldn't let him live.

Sergeant Barnes wouldn't have let him live, either. He'd have identified a potential threat from above and sent off a bullet without thinking twice, one eye on Steve's position below the entire time.

He didn't want to believe he was still _anything_ like the Winter Soldier, no matter how much evidence liked to periodically appear.

He certainly was just a _shadow_ of the man who used to go by ' _Sergeant'_ all those years ago.

So who was he now? He found himself groping in the dark emptiness in his own head, there, on a cheap motel room stoop, at whatever-o'clock in the morning, with an expensive, ultra-designed SIG pressed to some poor kid's forehead.

He couldn't be the Winter Soldier. He just…he _couldn't_.

He knew he wasn't James Barnes, no matter how much he liked to pretend with himself.

He wasn't really sure who _Bucky_ ever was at this rate.

What identity did that leave him?

" _Fuck_ , man— _Kevin_ …" he said again, his voice low and confused.

 _Jamie_.

He could try and be the man she _thought_ she'd married, no matter how ridiculous it sounded.

"You've got thirty seconds," he said, his voice low and threatening—he wasn't sure how to turn that part off and wasn't sure he even wanted to at this juncture. "Take your man and go."

The merc sank to the ground, bracing himself on his hands where he panted for relieved breath. " _Fuck_ , man…"

" _Clock's ticking_ ," he growled.

He was up like a shot, forcing unsteady legs into action. His military past was evident in how easily and quickly he hauled his dead partner over his shoulder. With one hand, he opened the back door, then he laid out the other man in the backseat and shoved the door shut again, barely glancing over his shoulder at the assassin behind him. He stood there a moment, staring through the window at him, and Bucky would've felt hopelessly guilty had the two not come in guns practically blazing.

He'd do anything to protect Darcy.

 _Anything_.

"Ten…nine… _eight_ …" he started counting down.

Jumping, the man threw himself into the driver's seat of the black Tahoe and turned the ignition.

Casually, Bucky approached, leaning in just a bit too far.

He jumped.

"You tell Killian something for me: he keeps this up, and I'll come after him myself. And he doesn't want to meet _Mr. Hyde_."

And he stepped back.

He stood there, watching as the poor guy pulled away, burning rubber as he peeled out of the lot and back onto the highway, his face white in the mirror.

With a rush, the adrenaline ran out, leaving a hollow ringing in his ears and an unsteady shaking in his hands, and he couldn't go one more second holding that damn SIG.

Breathless, he locked the door behind him and tossed it down on the bed—

Where Darcy was still sound asleep. How she'd slept through gunfire was beyond him, especially in her current state…

Pulling his hands down his face, he took a deep breath and sat down at her feet, gingerly, to avoid waking her. He sat there for a long time, watching her sleep in the dark silence of the room.

What he wouldn't have given in that moment, to be back home, in their bed, safe and sound, with Darcy out of harm's way.

She had chosen this, yes, _chosen_ to remain with Jane, _chosen_ to follow her in her pursuits, _chosen_ to stay with SHIELD, and take the job with Tony, and to date a former Soviet assassin, yes.

But that didn't stop him from feeling guilty and latently furious that the only thing keeping her from safety and consistency was his presence in her life.

But frustration was really nothing new to him, and neither was fury, not since he'd woken from that decades-long nightmare that was his time in Russian captivity.

And he couldn't change that.

He couldn't change that any more than he could change the fact that he'd fallen head over heels for the woman in front of him and would fall apart without her.

Sometimes he felt like he hadn't tried hard to enough to push her away.

He thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , if he'd been more stern, if he'd put on a mean face—the one he was so good at slipping on when he wanted to—then maybe she'd have just married some suit that worked in accounting, or one of Tony's other assistants, one of the lower ones that Darcy helped Pepper oversee. Maybe she'd be safe now.

Safe and _entirely human_.

Unaltered in her utter perfection.

And he'd be _miserable_.

He knew how that would've gone.

And he'd made excuses for himself for not taking that route.

Did it make him a selfish bastard to just want something for himself after so long as a puppet? He'd finally gotten himself back and here was a girl—a _stunningly_ attractive, warm, wonderful woman—who didn't balk at his every movement. It had been _so long_ since he'd felt warm. So long since he'd felt anything other than icy numbness, anger, fury, dark suppression. The things they _told_ him to feel.

He'd missed friends, someone to talk to.

And Steve didn't…Steve didn't have the same effect anymore.

He'd missed smiling and laughing. He'd missed flirting.

He'd missed _sex_.

 _God_ , he'd missed sex.

He'd just wanted something for _himself_.

The need to wrap his arms around something and hold on tight had been so suffocating that he'd barely been able to breathe.

And she was there, offering herself up.

Was it _so_ awful, _so_ wrong, that he'd taken her offering like a religious sacrifice?

What was worse: the fact that he'd done so, or the fact that he couldn't regret it, no matter how hard he tried? Was it so bad that he'd never looked back? He'd given her so many outs, and she'd balked at each one. He'd threatened so many times to just end it because he wasn't good for her, and she'd laughed, and yelled, and snapped, and even slapped once or twice, and he couldn't regret a _moment_ of it, not a _single second_ , no matter _how much_ he wanted to, no matter _how much_ he thought he ought to now.

Even though looking at her in this moment felt akin to ripping his own heart out and crushing it in his metal fist.

He'd been numb to everything for so long, that he was surprised when a drop of moisture hit his hand, and he blinked to realize he was weeping. Sighing and rolling his eyes, he brushed his face dry and set a hand on Darcy's arm. "Solnishka?"

She stirred. "Whassa matter?"

"We've gotta go, love," he murmured.

She frowned, but sat up, groggy, pulling the back of her hand across her eyes. "Again?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Why don't you go splash some water on your face and I'll start packing up, okay?"

"Mm-mm…" she hummed, sliding down from the high bed and shuffling across the room. The bathroom door shut behind her with a soft click.

He stood, stretched, and retrieved his SIG.

The door opened. "Two questions," she said, sounding slightly more aware now as she framed herself in the doorway. "Why is your gun on the bed? And why are you crying? I've seen you cry all of _once_ in the _entire_ time I've known you, and it was only because I was lying unconscious in Bruce's lab, sliced up to within an inch of my life."

He sighed again. "We should do this later," he said, his voice low.

Darcy frowned, not unkindly. "I think we should do it _now_ , before it gets chased off by something else." She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out a hip, revealing just the edge of her black boy shorts under the t-shirt she'd been sleeping in. It read: 'You read my t-shirt. That's enough social interaction for today.'

He grabbed her backpack from the floor and started tossing things in willy-nilly. "Darcy…"

"Jamie. _Seriously_ —things always get pushed to the back burner with us. And not for lack of trying—it's just how our life is."

He straightened and looked at her.

She looked exhausted. Her skin was washed out and her eyes—wide and less than enthused—were puffy. Her brows scrunched into her version of a compassionate expression. "Your eyes are red." She cleared her throat. "Give it up, Barnes."

He sighed, again.

"Don't sigh," she told him, her voice softening. "You know, you worry so much about _me_ that I think your own feelings sometimes pass you right by and you don't even notice until they've _plowed_ into you." She crossed the room again back to him. "They tried so hard to program you not to feel anything. They almost succeeded. They _almost_ buried you—even from _yourself_. You don't have to hide behind it." She pressed her palms to his chest. "I heard a couple car doors. What did I sleep through?"

He sighed again, deep and long, and tipped his forehead down into hers, his posture softening in reluctant surrender as he slid his arms around her. "Couple of mercs."

She didn't tense.

"That doesn't make you nervous?"

She shrugged. "I trust you. What happened? You kill 'em? There a bloody puddle outside the door?"

"One of them. I let the other go."

She was silent.

"I shouldn't have."

She reached up to brush a lock of his hair back, off his forehead. "What does it say about our life that mercy might not be such a good thing?"

He tightened his embrace. "I sent him back with a message."

"What did he say?"

"Just that Killian wanted you back. Sounds like he's trying Extremis again, and you're the key if he wants to create more hybrid soldiers."

She snorted unexpectedly. " _God_ , if that doesn't sound like the plot of an _X-Men_ movie."

He gave up a small smile.

"That explains the SIG. That doesn't explain your puffy eyes."

It was like she _knew_.

"If you're about to blame yourself, you can fucking save it, Barnes," she whispered, and her tone was a strange mix of sweet and threatening.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

She pushed him gently back, then back again, until his knees had folded back onto the bed and she had curled her legs around his waist, straddling his lap. " _Talk_."

"Darcy, we don't have ti—"

"You sent the guy back with the body of his dead comrade—if that doesn't send a message, whatever you growled at him should at least slow them down for _ten_ _minutes_ , _Sergeant_. Now, I know something happened _up here_ while I was strapped to a beach house kitchen chair." She stuck a fingertip against his temple and pressed, knocking his head sideways for a second.

"And I _refuse_ to push, because you're seriously _the_ most awesome partner a girl could ask for. You don't needle and pick like modern guys do. But don't, _for one second_ , think I believe that you're okay. Whatever happened to you fucked you up a little bit again, and while I'm patient, I refuse to sit around and watch you brood. _It's. Not. Healthy_. Just because you're done seeing the SHIELD shrink does not mean you don't need to use words to talk things out when they bother you. _Fuck_ the _fucking_ twentieth century, _God damn it_ , for making all you men believe that feeling emotions makes you weak and un-masculine. Such a _fucking_ load of _bullshit_. _You. Don't. Fool me. Sir_. So _spill_. You are breaking my heart."

For a long moment, he just looked into her face, searching it for something; he wasn't sure what. He pressed his hands against her, curving the small of her back until she was closer, and she set her forehead against his collar bone. "You have got to be the strongest creature I've ever met," he murmured. Pre-dawn light shone weakly in the front window, turned sepia gray by the lacy drapes. "I wish you didn't have to be."

She gave a soft little laugh. "Go back and tell my father that."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "You and me, both."

She sighed, sounding strangely contented.

"I feel like we're on borrowed time, dollface."

"Your Spidey Sense is tingling?"

He sighed. "I'm serious, Darcy."

She pulled back. "Okay, okay. The full name, you mean business." She smoothed his t-shirt. "Are the walls closing in?"

He looked her square in the face. "I don't know if I can protect you from what's coming."

She shrugged. "I trust you."

He huffed out a breath. "Darcy, I'm not a _superhero_! I'm _serious_."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You're _not_? Gee, you sure had me fooled."

He groaned, pulling his hands down his face. He hadn't slept a wink and it was now after three in the morning. "Darcy…"

"Why do you feel like we're on borrowed time?"

"They keep finding us. Whatever this is, it isn't over."

She shrugged again. "We'll get home. Then we can work on detangling their knot."

"I have the creepiest feeling that that's what they _want_ us to do."

Another raised brow. "Babe, you're sounding a little paranoid, now."

He took a breath. "This isn't _HYDRA_ talking, Darcy, this is _decades_ of experience in espionage. _Yes_ , they've been trailing us, _yes_ , it's clear that Killian wants you back, but considering I'm your bodyguard in this, don't you think this has all been just a _little_ too easy? In my experience, this flight we've been on isn't supposed to leave room for half a honeymoon."

She hesitated.

"Because it feels like getting you back is a game to him so far, like he's willing to sit back and settle for the next best thing."

She frowned. "And what's the next best thing?"

"I. Don't. Know. _That's the problem_."

She was silent.

"And now we're told he wants to create more soldiers _like_ you? That sounds _eerily_ familiar, Darcy, and I don't find it encouraging. What's his game plan? Did he say _anything_ to you in the woods that day?"

She twitched, arching her back at the reminder of the scars on her belly. "Not much. Just that I could be… _more_. And that he didn't need to help me much."

He latched on. "See, _that's_ my point. What the _fuck_ has he got up his sleeve?"

She blinked in thought for a moment. "So…"

"It almost makes me wanna just drive in circles until he tips his hand. Which he won't. He's a fucking genius, _Stark level_. He's not gonna slip on _anything_ less than aggression, and I don't feel confident enough to confront him, regardless of my threat. It was empty. There's no way I'm going after him with you in tow."

Her expression buckled into a scowl. "And _why not_? I'm _stronger_ now, I'm—"

"That doesn't mean I'm okay with walking in there with the very thing he wants— _you_! You can make your own decisions, Darcy, but if you think I'm okay with making you even more vulnerable than you already are, then you haven't been paying attention!"

She sighed, looking at him, hard. "So…what?"

He flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

She bounced against his hips and braced herself against the jolting of the mattress with her palms on his taut belly. His abdominals were still rock hard and defined, and she would've taken the opportunity to trace them with a fingertip if the mood in the room were just a fraction lighter. "Jamie…?"

He pulled his hands down his face again, heaving a deep sigh. "I love you."

She was silent. It sounded like a whispered confession, and she wasn't sure she should interrupt him mid-flow. He was usually better when he got it all out at once.

Her heart, though, gave the usual flutter at his declaration. The same one it had given her that first time he'd said it, that New Year's Eve night, standing on a random street outside a random diner in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. She'd been so sure she'd been unrequited, that he'd never be okay enough to utter words like that, and to hear him speak them so unexpectedly had sent her reeling and she felt the same dizzying sensation every time he'd said it since, like she had to hold onto him for dear life.

She hadn't thought she'd ever be the sort of girl to have a relationship stable enough to allow for those sorts of words, but the fact that she'd earned them from _him_ made it all the more precious.

"I love you—with _everything_ I have, Darcy. But I'm just a guy. You have _so much_ faith in me— _too much_ faith in me. But I'm getting that old feeling again, like part of me is slipping through the cracks. I can't protect you from everything, no matter how much that rips me up inside, no matter how much this thing inside me wants to tear a hole in the world to keep you from harm."

He sounded so full of despair.

"My entire life has felt like it's been outside of my control. The only thing I did was rebel. The only thing I did that felt like my choice was remove myself and…and then I enlisted. What was the difference? The world was falling apart anyway. It was just me and Stevie. But even _that_ wasn't in my control. Lousy at holding onto it."

Darcy's heart squeezed. "You weren't lousy at hanging onto control—you had yours _stolen_ , Jamie."

"What's it _matter_? You've said it yourself—I've barely had the chance to make any of my own choices. And here I am again. It follows me around—we can't even go on a vacation, a _date_ , Darcy! We can't even go on a _fucking_ date. This is _ridiculous_."

She sighed. "Well, I, for one, am too stubborn to let that stop me from trying. And I know you are, too."

He blinked up at the ceiling, his eyes moving as he traced something. "I know. It's just…I didn't want any of this for you. And I know you've made your own choices. And I can hardly argue with them, given the fact that I'm head over heels for you. I just…I was _just_ naïve enough, after _everything_ that should've taught me otherwise, to think that we could be _anything_ akin to normal. You've suffered far too much, and it's not going to stop." He looked at her, his eyes hard, imploring her to understand. "You _know_ that, right? _It's not going to stop_ , Darcy. This is just the _beginning_."

Caught in the tight thread of his gaze, she could only nod.

"Life's not fair. I know that. And wishing for something doesn't make it happen. I just…I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but even doing _that_ , this wasn't what I was expecting. They turned around and used my own trick—they came at us _sideways_." His hands folded into fists.

She wrapped both of her hands around his human one and held on.

"I can feel it all slipping away. This was just an interlude, soon to be a _vicious_ coda. And the urge to cling to you and never move ever again is _paralyzing_."

He fell silent.

It took her a long time to decode everything he'd said and formulate it into something resembling a single emotion. He was very eloquent and emotive and sometimes he said so much she had to go back and retrace her steps to get at the root of what he was feeling.

Fear.

 _Crippling_ fear.

Something he wasn't particularly used to feeling.

And it was dredging things up from the muck he'd buried it under.

Something vaguely related started coalescing in her chest and she folded herself into the crook of his arm and tucked herself against him, setting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. "You're scaring me," she murmured.

"I'm sorry."

The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room, gray turning to blue as the sun started peeking over the horizon.

"What do we do?"

"…I don't know."

((()))

Something was ringing.

Tony frowned, the sound yanking him from sleep, and opened his eyes, blinking groggily.

He'd fallen asleep in the lab—again—and his neck was tighter than a bowstring from the way he'd been sprawled on his desk, half out of his rolling chair.

The ringing returned and he jumped, looking around. His phone. Where the hell had his phone ended up in all this mess?

That was it—he'd been up late going through commutations in hopes of narrowing down what had been done to Darcy, using the equations he'd stolen from Killian's lab all those years ago. He'd relied on those equations to cure Pepper, and he hoped they could help Darcy, now.

He must've set his head down for just a second…

The ringing started again, and he lurched up from his desk, wincing at his sore body. Four in the morning. It was almost four in the fucking morning—who the hell was calling at four in the morning?

Suddenly desperate, he lunged for a blinking pile of papers, the flashing screen of his phone shining through them and snatched up his phone, swiping the screen as he whipped it up to his ear. "Short Stack?"

Silence on the other end.

He frowned, listening. "Darce? You okay? Tell me you're okay." His heart was thundering in his chest.

"Hey, Tony."

Not. Darcy.

His heart plummeted into his stomach and a chill ran up his spine, standing the hair on his neck on end. He swallowed at the familiar casual timber of Aldrich Killian's voice and sat heavily down, fumbling awkwardly at his computer's touch screen. "Killian. What'cha need, buddy?"

"Ooh, long time to reply, there. I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?"

He strained in an attempt to listen to any telling noises in the background, but there were none. "No. Just working in the lab."

"Yeah, you always struck me as a workaholic, night owl type of guy."

Tony let silence take over, refusing to give the insane inventor the satisfaction of his terror.

Although he was.

 _Utterly_ terrified.

He'd thought he'd killed this man three years ago—or rather, that Pepper had, technically. The last time he'd seen him he'd been crushed under the weight of his own serum, a burning man of nothing more than flame, unstable to begin with and driven into a tight spiral by his own ambitions.

The thought, then, that Tony had almost gone that way, had driven him so hard in the other direction that he'd destroyed all his suits. He'd had to start over afterward—with Pepper's approval, of course—and do it the right way this time, or risk the team lacking air support.

And now he'd fucked with Darcy.

That was both the women in his life.

 _It was starting to piss him off_.

"How've you been, Stark?"

He flinched. "Get to it, Killian. You called to taunt, so go ahead. I'm waiting. I've got too much to do, here, I'm a busy man."

"Ooh, impatient, too, hm?" He sighed. "I know, I just couldn't resist. It was a double edged sword for me, really. I knew, choosing to act on my information with HYDRA, the patient being your girl and all, would draw your attention. It was a risk I had to take, you know? For the betterment of mankind."

"You mean the advancement of AIM."

Killian chuckled like they were good buddies. "Well. However you want to put it."

He had so many things he wanted to say, but he wasn't sure where to start without giving Killian any vindication at their predicament.

So he started by studiously ignoring him while he tapped his touch screen, waking up JARVIS and immediately silencing him to avoid giving away his game plan. He quickly opened his signal tracking software and hit 'Begin Trace', sitting back and waiting him out. Killian had always been a bit of a showman and Tony knew he wouldn't last long without starting a big, long, slightly transparent conversation.

Really, this might be the break he'd been desperately searching for, if he played all his cards right. If he could manage this hand all the way to the end, he'd even let Bucky finish him off—for good this time. It would be so satisfying to just sit back and watch while the Winter Soldier ripped him to shreds. He had the errant thought that his metal arm was probably capable of ripping a limb clean off. Would that be enough against Extremis, multiple limbs notwithstanding?

"Aw, nothing to say, Tony?" Killian needled. "You must be _beside_ yourself with worry. Or have you already talked to your little girl?"

He bristled. Darcy wasn't ' _little'_ anything. Only an _idiot_ would be stupid enough to call Darcy ' _little'_ in any capacity.

But he held his tongue.

"I missed a romantic interlude, didn't I? To think, I could've had both the lovebirds, had I just acted sooner and swooped in on your little Wedding Weekend, hm?"

No surprise that he'd been watching them long enough to know about their extended weekend at the B&B.

Everyone had been so angry that the two of them had practically eloped, but Tony thought it was hilarious. They'd all been so against the romance from the start. They hadn't made their scorn particularly obvious—with the notable exceptions of Hill and Foster—but then, they hadn't really needed to, had they?

Their patronizing chuckling and backhanded comments about the lion's den had done the job well enough.

Tony had to admit, at first, he'd been as surprised as any of them.

But then that surprise had turned to intrigue.

He'd narrowed his eyes and watched from the corners of them, considering, observing. He'd made note of every single time Bucky's eyes searched her out and stayed there just a fraction of a second too long, every time Darcy smiled like she was deliberately trying to make him reciprocate, every single time that everyone else missed.

"It was, Killian. Super romantic, totally a Disney movie. You would've loved it," he snarked.

He'd kept track of the subtle changes in their exchanges, as they'd slowly slip-slid down a slope from friendly chit-chat, to witty banter, and the straight drop of flirtation.

That Wednesday she'd snuck out for lunch had been a dead giveaway. She'd made it a habit of ordering something in, flitting down to the café in the lobby, or ducking out for Starbucks, returning in ten minutes and eating at her desk, but she'd been gone that day for almost two hours, finally blowing in, breathless and flushed and apologizing profusely in between telling him how pretty Central Park was in the afternoon, with the ducks swimming around the pond.

But he'd just smiled and told her not to worry about it.

And it continued.

And—not so subtly—Bucky's presence on the lab floor had seemed to increase, just the smallest amount in those first few weeks. They went out of their way to keep it quiet.

But eventually it was something that was impossible to hide.

And they didn't try.

If there was a main staff meeting, they'd sit next to each other, chatting.

If there was a gathering of some sort, while everyone was getting drunk in Thor's corner, Darcy and Bucky were in the opposite one, feet up on the balcony, laughing.

No one had been able to get him to laugh since he'd arrived. So astounding was the effect of the open, contagious sound of his laughter that everyone took it in turn to stop and stare, blinking stupidly, as though they weren't sure what they were hearing.

And then the comments started.

 _'_ _Lunch? What do you mean, lunch? Was it, like, a date?'_

 _'_ _You make sure you twist his head on right, now, okay, Darcy? Remember: Righty-Tighty, Lefty-Loosey. Don't forget.'_

 _'_ _You two are pretty cozy lately. Tell me: does that arm of his get all warmed up?'_

Tony had bristled, already feeling vaguely protective of her—and Bucky as well, the poor kid—but he'd kept his mouth shut. It was none of his business and the two of them could pick their own fights.

And when she started sleeping over and sneaking out, doing the Walk of Shame, she'd picked a few, snapping at Wanda, telling Maria to sit on it, blushing when Sam gave her a knowing smirk.

"Well, damn," Aldrich sighed. "You know I love Disney movies."

But Jane.

Foster had been the last straw. Again, he'd offered as little support as possible, because he didn't want to interfere or make it worse.

But enough was enough.

An engagement was serious and frankly, Tony found it incredibly impressive that Bucky had pulled the trigger. If James Barnes could repair himself enough for something as serious as marriage, what was anyone else's excuse?

Darcy had done something to him: put him back together, threading every little tiny piece back into its correct spot until the puzzle of him was complete, if a bit frayed at the edges.

But somehow, some way, that still wasn't enough for the rest of the team.

Of course, there were exceptions.

Natasha and Steve watched quietly, smirking at each other.

Sam would chuckle and shake his head.

Bruce finally broke down once and said, 'Are Darcy and James a thing? They sure seem comfortable with each other.'

And Tony had muttered, 'You finally noticed everyone giving them a hard time?'

'Hardly seems fair.'

The whole thing had brought some strange latent instinct out of Tony that he still felt a little restless with: the urge to shield them.

He finally just said it. "He'll kill you, Killian, before he lets you take her from him. You should know that."

And Aldrich laughed. "Oh, not if I take them both."

"Then he'll kill her and himself," he snapped, then blinked, whiplashed at his own words, and he realized it hadn't been something he'd really considered before that moment.

But he somehow knew it was true.

This was the very last thing Bucky wanted for her, and Tony was certain he'd do anything to shield her from a life like the one he'd suffered through. And he certainly wouldn't let them take him back alive. Not again.

A stinging sensation began somewhere in the vicinity of his sternum and he swallowed thickly, willing it away.

"Oh, I don't know about _that_. Love is a strong motivator. Isn't it, Stark?"

He narrowed his eyes as a window popped up on his touch screen in place of JARVIS' voice. 'Western Seaboard, Southwestern United States,' it read, 'Triangulating. Please stand by.'

"I pricked your ego a little bit, again, here, didn't I, Tony?"

He rolled his eyes, but watched the screen. There was no way Killian was stupid enough to give him enough time to pinpoint his location, was there?

Unless he was just that confident.

It would be like him, really, given what he'd had to do the last time they'd met.

"I messed with your little girl, huh? Don't think I didn't figure out how you felt about her. I mean, anyone with eyes would be able to see the way you look at her. And I've been watching for a _long time_ —not to mention my guys on the inside during that whole HYDRA meltdown last year." He whistled low. "That was a doozy, huh? Almost snuffed her out with that one. Tell me something: I've been _dying_ to know. Did he cry? Did he? Did it actually reduce the _Winter Soldier_ to tears?"

Knowing that his silence would be a dead giveaway was the only reason Tony answered him at all. "Nothing reduces him to tears, Killian, and you'd be a fool to try. How many men that you've sent after them have returned? Hm?" Never mind the image that he didn't think he'd ever get out of his head: Bucky, tears tracking silently down his face as Darcy's pain medication had gone to work.

'Triangulating: Southern California,' JARVIS little window told him.

Killian groused through the phone line. "He's formidable. I'll give you that."

" _Hah_!" Tony actually laughed, the giggle bursting out of him with surprising force. " _'Formidable'_ is putting it nicely. Boy hits the right stride, he'll shred you where you stand and you won't notice until you take a step to walk away."

Aldrich hummed a cute little laugh. "I'm not particularly worried about him."

'Marin County, CA,' popped up onscreen. 'San Francisco Bay Area.'

"You should be. Extremis or not, if you think you've got the brute force to beat a HYDRA drone, you don't. I've done my own research, Killian. He knows how strong he is, but I can tell you that for all he understands, he's ten times stronger. Listen to me very carefully: No matter how this shakes down, you. Won't. Touch. Her. He won't let you. He's like a rabid dog and she's no slouch herself, and that's not even taking into account what you made her into. _Together_? The phrase ' _power couple'_ could take on new meaning."

"Hm. True," Aldrich hemmed and hawed. "Sure. But I don't really need to do any of that, if my other objective goes through. And it will."

Tony didn't bother asking what that other objective was; he'd never learn it by straightforward means.

"So, really, either way, I'm bound to happen across the information that I need."

The GPS program zoomed in, closer, hovering over San Francisco, then zoomed again, pulled up close to the Bay Area. Tony narrowed his eyes again, watching closely.

'San Rafael' came up in the little box.

There it was.

A mansion on the Shoreline, standing on an outcropping in the wooded San Francisco hills.

He grinned. "You sound awfully sure of yourself. I seem to remember that attitude from the last time we met—you know, that one time, when you died?" he snarked.

Killian chuckled. "Except I didn't—although your sweetheart did give it the old college try, it's true. But the game's only gotten richer since then. You've sweetened the pot, haven't you? All I need to do to cut you down is sit back, and watch it all unfold, just exactly the way I predicted it would, Tony. I've already set the wheels in motion. My fallback is a given and it's far, far too late for you to pull out now. I'm just a little bit bummed I won't be there to see the look on your face."

And he hung up.

But Tony had his exact location now, the address for that stately mansion standing out in bright blue on his screen.

He flicked a button.

 _Shall I prep a suit, Sir?_ JARVIS offered.

Tony slid his phone into his pocket and started for the door. "Not yet, J. Gotta do some prep first. I'll let you know, hey?"

 _Affirmative._


	18. Chapter 18: The Long And Winding Road

**Leaving On A Jet Plane** **MarvelLitChick**

 **Chapter Management** **Delete Chapter** **Chapter 18** **: The Long and Winding Road**

 **Summary:** **Whew. Okay, sorry guys. I really did mean to post another chapter during vacation, but you know how it is: things pile up. So here I am, now, apologizing, and ready with the next chapter, with a serious promise that, if you guys really like this one (it's a little shorter again) I'll post another this weekend yet. So let me know how you like it! I love hearing from you! This chapter is a little heavier on plot development, so there's a little less action. Also, please, just go with me, you gotta trust me. You'll know what I'm talking about when you get there. I actually did a little research on the direction I'm going here, technology speaking. There is stuff like this in development in the tech field, so I'm just stretching it a little bit here, which, considering we're dealing with AIM and HYDRA, I don't think is so far-fetched. Please let me know what you think.**  
 **I love you all! Enjoy. PS-I don't own MARVEL, and I don't own any of the music referenced here. Those belong to Pink Floyd, Queen, Derek and the Dominoes, etc. Also, the chapter title is taken from the song of the same name by Paul McCartney (technically The Beatles) off the Let It Be album.**

((()))

A knock at the door snapped both Darcy and Bucky from deep sleep.

She jerked, her palm pressing against his sternum, and shifted, her head coming up under his chin.

But he was already moving, sliding into a tight pair of jeans in record time, his SIG loose in his right hand before she could blink. "Jamie—"

"Sshhh…" he hushed. "Stay there. Don't move."

Her heart stammering in her chest, she pulled the sheet up tighter around her bare skin and huddled there, her naked back pressed against the headboard.

With a new hotel room some six hours away, it was only logical they'd somehow been followed— _again_ —and not even mind-blowing sex, some snuggling, and a good glimpse of her husband's great ass could distract her from the adrenaline pumping fresh through her veins. "Where's your Beretta?" she murmured, looking around and trying not to panic.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "Just be ready." He edged across the room, silent as a cat on the thick carpeting, the moonlight painting his defined upper body pale blue.

She tightened her grip on the sheet, cursing inwardly at her clothes— _across the room_ , thrown over the little dinette chair. After their discussion and that tense drive, he'd been all amped up, and when a super soldier was amped up, it was best—and _enjoyable_ —to just let him do what he needed to do to blow off the steam.

She'd be horribly sore in the morning—she already was, not that he'd ever find out—but she had a new appreciation for the little dinette table, and the cute little floral pattern on it that she'd memorized, not three feet from her face.

He'd never done that before, just totally let go. He was truly stressed if he was falling back on her insistence in the bedroom from just a few days ago.

He'd been right. It had hurt. Just a little. Nothing she hadn't expected, chagrined as she'd been with his hands working his magic.

But she'd been right too. It was a good ache, made even sweeter by the fact that it would be her dirty little secret, because if she ever let it slip to him, he'd never do it again. And she had _every_ intention of getting him to do that again.

He was _delicious_ when he was rough.

Gun up, he slid off the chain, then flicked the deadbolt as quietly as possible. He turned and gave her a long look heavy with feeling.

She nodded.

He whipped the door open, gun level, shoulder locked—

To reveal Natasha Romanoff on the little front stoop.

She leaned casually on the door jamb, arms folded, posture relaxed, no gun in sight, her fiery hair in a long curtain over one shoulder. "Yasha," she greeted.

Darcy gasped, jerking as she stared, open-mouthed.

Bucky, always thinking three steps ahead, ducked his head out, looked one way, then the other, grabbed her by one shoulder, and yanked her, none-too-gently, inside. " _Ty dumayesh', ty uzhasno smeshnoy_ ," he snarled, his Russian harsh and sharp as he slipped the door shut again, flipping the locks in a tangle of temper.

Natasha smirked. "I know."

"Tasha?"

The spy brushed her hair back over her shoulder and tested her shoulder around, frowning a little. "Lewis."

" _What the fuck_ , Natasha?" Bucky growled, setting his gun down on the table by the door again.

But she didn't seem particularly moved by his anger. "Your Russian is immaculate. Seriously—did one of those bastards teach you or did they just stick it up in your head and it's tangled in there somewhere?"

He looked murderous, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his pupils totally blown. "What do _you_ think?"

Darcy sighed. "What's. Going. On?"

Bucky sighed heavily, pulling a hand through his hair. "Natalia, here, thinks she's real funny, knocking on our goddamn door at two in the _fucking_ morning." He gestured.

"God, what did you do to my _shoulder_?" she asked, but her tone belied more curiosity than actual annoyance.

"Less than I would've done if I'd thought you were a merc," he barked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Goddamn, Tasha. You were a split second from getting your face blown off at point blank."

But she smirked again. "I know what a SIG Elite is capable of, don't worry. And no, I wasn't. You have better control than that, Barnes. Anyone who knows you well knows that."

He sighed again, telegraphing his displeasure with utter succinctness.

"Come sit, Jamie. Everything's fine," Darcy hushed, sliding a section of the covers back. Her adrenaline had left a trembling in its wake and she had to try twice before she managed to get a good enough grip on the white linens.

He retrieved her t-shirt from across the room first, and handed it to her as he finally rejoined her in the bed, propping up against the headboard with a scowl.

"Sorry," Natasha finally murmured, perching at the foot. "Cover of darkness and all that."

Bucky's hand found Darcy's knee through the blankets.

Natasha's eyes zeroed in on the motion and something in her face pinched. "Cuddling, I presume?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Bucky sighed, pulling a hand down his face. "Since it's such a rarity, nowadays."

She nodded, looking away.

"How long you been tailing us?" he asked, helping Darcy into the t-shirt behind the covers.

She shrugged. "Three days, give or take. Wanted to make sure we were clear before I approached."

He nodded. "And Steve?"

"Knows I'm with you.

They talked for over an hour about everything that had happened since they'd split up, and Natasha speculated about her serum, though she had no experience with Killian and Extremis prior to their predicament.

Yawning, she finally called a break and Bucky insisted she take the other half of the bed.

After a round of stubborn arguing, she finally did, sliding in next to Darcy, where she surprised the personal assistant by taking up her hand before falling sound asleep.

Bucky quietly reclined in the chair by the window, and spent the rest of the night on lookout, his back tense as he studied the Midwestern landscape through the lacy drapes.

Darcy spent the rest of the night wide awake, watching him.

Natasha slept like the dead.

Like, _literally_.

She didn't manage to hold onto Darcy's hand for very long, she was so exhausted, and after letting it slip from her grasp, she didn't move an inch the rest of the night.

In fact, Darcy took to watching her for long minutes just to make sure she was breathing, and she could feel Bucky doing the same, his eyes burning holes in her back.

She didn't think she fooled him in the slightest that she was awake, but she didn't acknowledge her sleeplessness either, and he didn't needle her.

It was a long few hours, considering it had been nearly two when she'd arrived and almost three when she finally begged sleep, but those few pre-dawn hours felt like they lasted forever, and Darcy was almost ashamed to admit to herself it was likely because Bucky felt like he was a world away, rather than just a few feet across the room.

It was remarkable what a little turmoil could do.

They'd always had a tight bond, but under such duress, the urge to cling was suffocating and it was all she could do to ignore his still form sitting at the window, arms folded, gaze dark and sharp on the surrounding scenery.

And, like a typical spy outfitted for field work, Natasha sat up abruptly at 7am sharp, making even Bucky jump, spooked.

She stretched, sighed, smiled sleepily, greeted their wide-eyed looks and promptly disappeared into the bathroom with a small pack that neither of them had noticed upon her arrival the previous night.

Darcy hauled herself up, rubbing her eyes.

Bucky was silent, but he rose from the table, slid onto the edge of the bed next to her, and took her in his arms, as though he'd been wanting to do it all night.

She melted against his chest.

His embrace tightened and he tucked her beneath his chin.

She pressed her face into the juncture between his shoulder and neck, feeling her heart rate slow automatically, and just like that, she was finally sleepy.

But just as she sighed, he pulled away, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Natasha rejoined them, looking refreshed, her hair perfect, her eyes bright, and her clothes straightened and neat.

Grumbling, Darcy slid into her pajama bottoms and took her turn in the bathroom , exhaustedly brushing her teeth, washing her face, pulling on fresh clothes and forcing on a light layer of makeup to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes.

She opened the bathroom door and was greeted with Natasha's Starkphone, shoved under her nose. She blinked. "What…what's this for?"

Natasha gave her what amounted to a sympathetic look for one such as her, and smirked. "Call Stark before he has a stroke. If Steve's not exaggerating, he's hanging on by a thread."

She hesitated only a moment, glancing at Bucky.

He shrugged. "We're already surrounded. You might as well. We'll get going as soon as you're done—when they get here, our trail should be cold."

Swallowing, she nodded.

They passed each other as they crossed the room, and Bucky squeezed her hand on his way to the bathroom, clothes thrown over his shoulder.

She slid out the door and glanced around. Confident that she was alone, she dialed Tony's lab and waited, listening to the dial tone and nervously picking at the loose hem of her t-shirt.

It rang and rang.

She frowned. It was unlike him not to be somewhere near his phone, if not in his lab, circumstances notwithstanding.

There was a soft click, then JARVIS spoke, surprising her. _Forwarding call_ , he announced, and the dial tone continued.

"Romanoff, I feel like I need to answer every call from you with an Iggy Azalea lyric, but I dunno—would be that be too on-the-nose?" Tony asked, sounding a little tinny, like he was speaking through his helmet.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of his voice. "Hey, Boss Man," she finally said, and her voice cracked.

There was a pause. "Short Stack?"

"Yeah," she murmured, unable to push her voice louder no matter how she tried, moisture gathering in her eyes unexpectedly. "It's me."

"Darcy…" was all he said. "You've got no idea how good it feels to hear your voice, kid."

She sat down on the doorstep, the cement cold through her jean shorts. "I missed you, too."

"Hang on. Let me reroute."

There was a beep, and then dead air. She rolled her eyes affectionately. Always so cutting edge tech. Another beep, and this time the line was perfectly clear. "Tony?"

"Sorry. I was on my way somewhere, had the top down."

She smirked, cocking an eyebrow. "Oh, you did, did you?" She'd believe _that_ in a hot second. "Where you flying, Boss Man?"

"Got a lead. Don't worry your pretty head about it. I'll letcha know when something pans out."

She sighed. " _'When'_?"

"Yep. 'When'. Widow find you?"

"Scared the shit outta Jamie last night."

He chuckled. "Yeah, she's good at that."

They talked over everything that had happened, starting with their flight, Natasha's disappearance from base, Steve's confession, Maria's attitude, and everything that had followed.

She told him about her imaginings during her time spent getting closely acquainted with Tony's dining room chair and all that had followed, including her run-ins with Killian since then, his STRIKE style baton, and her physical changes.

He was silent the entire time she talked—which told her just how angry he was. "So, wait—you flipped this thing off the road and it _spontaneously combusted_?"

She shrugged, watching the sun come up behind the meadow across the highway. "Sort of."

"What did Bucky say?"

"Not much. Nothing seems to faze him."

"I don't think much really _should_ faze him anymore. How's he been?"

She pulled a hand down her face again, heaving a deep breath. "…Okay. I guess. He's pulled into himself a little. I think something happened to him while I was in there with Killian."

Tony snorted. "You bet your ass, Short Stack. His wife was being held hosta—"

"No, I mean… _other_ than that."

He paused. "What do you mean?"

She glanced back through the window to their room, and found the man in question talking quietly with Natasha, who was frowning in concentration. Lord knew what they were speculating about. "Like the equipment they used to keep him out…did something to him."

He was quiet for a long, long minute. "… _Like_?"

A car passed on the highway, a yellow VW Beetle. "Like something was knocked loose."

He sighed. "What, precisely, are we talking about here, Short Stack?"

She hunched lower against her legs. "Like he's remembering more. Things he couldn't get to before. Like they shook things out of their hiding places."

" _Good_ things?"

She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. "I dunno. He hasn't said much, but I've learned all his tells now, and though they're few and far between, he's displayed them all."

Tony chuckled. "Someone who can read the Winter Soldier. Imagine that."

She smirked despite herself. "If you're paying close enough attention, he's nearly as transparent as everyone else, Tony."

"Yeah, I heard the word 'nearly' in there, so I'm just gonna ignore everything else you said," he quipped. "Is he…acting normal?"

She sighed again, already exhausted. "Yeah. I mean…it's bothering him. That's about all I can tell. But he's…"

"Still Jamie?" he offered, his voice softening.

She glanced back through the window again. "Yeah." Now he was flat on his back on what had been her side of the bed the night before. He looked to be asleep—finally. Darcy knew that he could turn on and off like the flipping of a switch and so she figured he likely wasn't as asleep as he could be—as he _should_ be. "He's still him. It's bothering me, though."

"Why's that?"

She shrugged, though she knew he couldn't see her. "I dunno. He's acting a little like he used to. Heavy. Detached."

"So he's processing. That's how he processes—we all know that."

She took a deep breath. "I know. I know…"

"How is he with _you_? That's the question."

"Oh, fine. You know, surprisingly affectionate for…someone like him. Just quieter than usual."

"Then I wouldn't worry about it too much, Short Stack. He'll come around—that's what you always say."

She swallowed, nodding pointlessly. "Yeah."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

"Not really the trip you'd envisioned, hm?" he offered.

She snorted. "No. To say the least. I miss the lab."

"And the lab misses you. It's too quiet without you around to complain about my Black Sabbath."

She pulled a face. "I hate Black Sabbath."

"I know. But that doesn't mean I'm tired of hearing you bitch and moan about it. It's just me and Brucie, going over equations. The other day I had to dress down Foster just to keep things interesting."

She blinked. "Wait. _What_?"

Tony sighed. "She keeps sticking her foot in her mouth, you're astrophysicist. Shrugged you off. Even Bruce took issue with her."

She took a deep breath. "Go back to the beginning, Tony. Start over."

So he told her the entire story, including Bruce's input and Jane's storming out like some stereotypical belle.

Darcy listened incredulously, then sighed, and blinked, feeling a little sentimental and misty-eyed. "Well. Um," she commented, intelligently.

But Tony heard what she really meant, and his rueful smirk was clear in his tone. "You're welcome, Short Stack. This whole thing is getting stupid."

The door opened softly behind her.

She jumped.

Jamie was framed in the doorway, in a fresh t-shirt and cargo shorts, looking just this side of sad. "We should really get going, solnishka," he offered, his voice softening.

She nodded.

"That Buck?"

"Yeah."

"Hand the phone over, eh?"

She started chewing on her lip again. "'Kay. And Tony…" And she stopped, unsure what to say, the words sticking painfully in her throat, all the emotions she'd been shoving down and around since this all had started welling up. She wanted him there so badly in that moment, it was all she could do not to start crying like a little girl.

"I know, kid. I'll see ya when I see ya."

Swallowing thickly, she handed the phone over. Surprisingly, Bucky shut the door and sat down next to her on the stoop, outlining her leg with his own and settling his metal hand on her knee.

"Stark."

"You two okay? Darce seems…" Tony's voice was clear in Darcy's new ears.

"We're fine," the former assassin answered, surveying the landscape around them, eyes moving one way, then the other, always on the alert.

"Just make sure…" His voice faded and Darcy couldn't hear what the inventor said anymore.

Frowning, she twisted to look at him. The phone was to his opposite ear, so she couldn't see his hand where he held it up, but she was willing to bet he'd hit the volume key on the back so she wouldn't be able to spy on their conversation—about her.

He met her gaze evenly, no shame.

She glared at him.

He squeezed her knee and offered a look that didn't ask forgiveness.

She huffed, then winced, miffed at herself for her pettiness. Of course he'd turn the volume down. She rolled her eyes and settled for looking around while she leaned into his side.

"Mm-hm…Yeah, I know. Don't worry, Tony, you know I've got it in hand. I know. Yeah, I know." A long pause. "…I'm fine. I will. And what's that…?"

She sighed, studying the other cars in the lot: A Chevy Tahoe, its silver paint shimmering in the light of the just-risen sun. A retro, eighties black T-Top, its shadow flickering in the heat coming off the blacktop. It was already hot enough to make you sweat just sitting there in the shade.

"Well. Might be nothing. Probably empty by the time you get there. Right. Coolers. Yeah, coolers. Check for those. Romanoff fill you in on the rest? Mm-hm…"

Tired, she set her head down on her knees and let her eyes slide shut, willing herself to sleep.

His hand slid off her knee—"Mm-hm. And Stevie? Yep"—and up her back, running a long, slow line up along her spine, and then back down, then back up, then back down.

She drifted, only half hearing their conversation. If she relaxed enough, her body melting under his touch, she could almost swear she could feel the various foreign substances drifting in her veins, laced with God-knew-what, working furiously to make her…God-knew-what.

"Yeah, that's what it did, alright. I dunno, it was like a…yeah. Like that. Compressed air. Sort of. And they've got a weapon similar to the—yeah. The STRIKE Team, yeah. I dunno, I hated all those guys. Oh, yeah, just didn't realize I did. I dunno, that sort of stuff was just a vague flickering in the back of my head." He snorted. "Yeah, we'll call up that guy. I'll bet he'd have fun poking around up there. What's his name again? Got that weird place on the East End? Strange, right?"

She only half listened.

"A Lambo, huh? Three-hundred grand out the window. You two would get along real well, I'm sure. Oops, was that offensive? Yeah?"

She frowned, listening to their banter.

"We'll be fine. We're long past Springfield, Stark, we're almost to Cleveland. You just be careful—and I wanna know what you find, if you find anything, alright? Okay. Later."

He hung up.

The door opened. "We should really get going. We're gonna be cutting it a little close, don't you think?" Natasha said.

Bucky handed the phone to her over his shoulder. "You read my mind, Romanoff. Gimme a sec, okay?"

The door clicked softly shut.

"Hey," he murmured, leaning into her and setting his chin on the back of her head. "You gonna be okay?"

She sighed. "We should go." She gently extricated herself—

But he grabbed her face in his too-strong-to-escape grip and forced her to look him levelly in the face. "Darcy."

"What?"

"We're almost there. Okay? I need you to hang on just a little longer. Can you do that for me?"

His eyes were bright in the sunlight washing against their motel room door.

"Think so."

He pressed a kiss to her temple and stood, dragging her up with him. "Okay."

((()))

He was right; they _were_ to Cleveland by lunch, and spent the afternoon following a surprisingly scenic coastline that reminded Darcy of home. Growing up not far from the Jersey Shore, she'd spent a lot of her childhood biking around and meeting small groups of friends on the boardwalk.

They whiled away the hours playing ridiculous traveling games, with license plates and road signs. Bucky proved to be infuriatingly good at it, merely shrugging and saying that back in the twenties and thirties, cars were slow, had no radio, and even though they weren't capable of going the distance like modern ones, they still didn't offer much in the way of entertainment. He had a mind for it all and trounced Natasha and Darcy not once, but _three_ times. _I, Spy_ was particularly obnoxious with him and he just grinned smugly when they snarled their losses and Darcy resisted the urge to smack him in the back of the head.

Darcy took charge of the radio, flipping channels until something good was tripped over. It struck Bucky as unsurprising both that she was a huge fan of The Beatles ("I want _you_! I want you so _baaaad_! C'mon! Carpool Karaoke!") or that Natasha was a fan of Pink Floyd ("Turn this up."). She and Darcy argued the merits of 'Hey You' versus 'Another Brick in the Wall', then moved on to Queen's top tracks. "Totally 'Bohemian Rhapsody', no argument." "No. Wait. I think there's support for 'The Show Must Go On'!" Darcy had no qualms about belting it all loudly—and, enjoyably, totally in tune—out the window and he even caught a dialed-down Natasha swaying slightly in the backseat during the outro of 'Layla'.

By the time the sun was going down on the horizon, he felt like he'd learned more than a little about each of them just that afternoon alone, and just by something as mundane as listening to the radio.

They swiped a slightly beat up pick-up truck in the evening, and Natasha stretched out across the front bench seat while Bucky and Darcy took the truck bed. She muttered something in Russian that made Bucky roll his eyes and when Darcy asked him for a translation, she had to laugh. "She told us not to get—and I quote—' _frisky'_ back here," he said, "As if this whole adventure is real romantic."

Darcy just chuckled.

They returned to their conversation from what felt like ages ago, on the beach house's deck, and Bucky pointed out the constellations until she fell asleep, her head against his shoulder.

((()))

By the time Tony got to Killian's place, it was near dark. He did two flyovers in order for JARVIS to do a thorough scan of the place, then chose to land on the extravagant helipad.

The view of the mountains really was quite breathtaking, but Tony was exceedingly preoccupied. Somebody had slapped around his little girl, and that wasn't gonna fly, _thank-you-very-much_.

He hit the button on his suit and it clanked and slid around him, pieces folding and disappearing into each other, the armor growing smaller and smaller, until it was just a little suitcase at his feet. Sighing, he hefted it up, tucked it out of sight between the concrete barrier and the stairwell entry, straightened his Foreigner T-shirt, glanced around, and peered through the small window on the stairwell door. Thanks to his superior range, the digital butler could continue to assist him even locked away in the case on the roof.

"No heat signatures within the immediate structure, Sir," JARVIS supplied into his earpiece, his only tether to the case. "I can commence a full scan in approximately forty-five meters."

"Thanks, J," Tony muttered, trying the doorknob.

It was conveniently unlocked.

He smiled as he went in. Within was a normal, totally unsuspicious steel staircase leading down to another door.

That one was unlocked too.

"Something strange is afoot, my man," he said.

"That depends on one's definition of the word 'strange', wouldn't you say, Sir?" JARVIS piped up. "In the most recent edition of Webster's Dictionary—"

"Shut up, JARVIS." Tony rolled his eyes. "No one's looking at philosophy right now."

The program fell silent, but a little purple light went on at the tip of the ear piece as he went through the second door, and began to blink, letting him know his scan had started.

The floor he'd emerged onto was not unlike any random one in The Tower—full of monochrome and steel, metal ornamentation and frosted glass. He narrowed his eyes and slowly moved down the wide hallway before him. Matte black floor tiling took him all the way down, where there were two glass doors set into either side of the wall. "Eenie, Meenie…" he muttered, and at the last moment, took the one on the right, pushing it carefully open.

Inside was a lab. Obviously, it was a lab, or it used to be. Now it was totally stripped, complete with dust outlines where equipment used to sit on the long, dark tables. It stretched the entire length back down the hallway, and as he moved back through the room, skirting table edges and ducking to look on low shelves, he determined that not only was the place _entirely_ empty—no clues to be found—but also that it was a stupid place for a lab. "Can you pull up the schematics of this place, J?"

"Certainly, Sir."

There was a pause as JARVIS searched his database.

"Approximately twelve floors, Sir. Quite low, really. The only reason it appears to have been allowed a helipad by the Building Inspection Code of the State of California is its architectural placement in the hills. A bit odd, don't you think, Sir?"

"Mm," Tony agreed, frowning as he stopped to look around. "You know what else is odd?"

"Any number of things, surely, Sir."

"Labs are usually situated on lower levels…"

"In order to contain and properly seal off the potential for any number of lab accidents, Sir, precisely," JARVIS finished for him.

He narrowed his eyes.

Then he went across the hall to search that room. Another lab. Also empty.

"Scooby Doo would be getting frustrated by now…" he murmured as he decided to bypass the elevator and, instead, took the stairs. More steel and glass.

The next eleven floors after that were more nothing.

Some offices.

A small cafeteria with a pretty upscale looking barista bar.

Some shut down food trolleys.

Nothing.

Just _nothing_.

Scowling, he stared out the front doors to the back road, where it was likely the employees came and went.

He couldn't help but think it seemed like a lot of building for what had to be just a few employees allowed onto an estate like this.

Unless…

"Might I suggest this may be any of a number of potential bases for the AIM organization, Sir?" JARVIS finally offered.

Tony nodded, backing up and going back through the main lobby. "You read my mind, J." Reminding himself that curiosity often did, in fact, kill the metaphorical cat, he hit the button on the elevator and got in, holding the door open with one foot to avoid a potential _Panic Room_ sort of scenario. Whoever had come up with the moronic rejoinder of, '…and satisfaction brought it back' had clearly never been in a superhero scenario. After all, early on in his studies, he'd have countered with two words that any scientist would back up: Schrödinger's. Cat. That cat made way more sense to him.

There was a fingerprint security pad for a control panel.

He rolled his eyes. "Amateur." Leaning down, he exhaled over the glass, covering the screen with the fog of his breath and revealing the last marks to grace it.

A beep sounded overhead. "Welcome, Mr. Killian," said a warm, female, computerized voice. "Proceeding to lab."

He jerked his foot out of the doorway, allowing them to finally slide shut. "Goes out of his way to apply high-tech security, but totally forgets the geniuses that might wanna break in," he scoffed, shaking his head.

The elevator went into a graceful, barely-perceptible swoop, and Tony watched the numbers descend, past ten, past five, then past one altogether, until he figured they were about four-hundred feet below the surface—cut directly into the mountain face. There, the lift drifted to a gentle stop and the doors slid open.

"This floor appears to be abandoned as well, Sir, and though I've adjusted the schematics, I can detect no other hidden floors."

"So this is it, then," Tony confirmed as he stepped out into the dark room, this one more black matte and less shiny glass and flashy steel.

"It would appear so, Sir."

There was only the one room—another lab, this one clearly more involved. _This_ one was where the real action went down. It was just as stripped, but there was, in fact, a computer built into the unit along the back wall. After he confirmed there was absolutely nothing else left to search in the room, he sat down on a steel lab stool in front of the computer and pulled the piece out of his ear. "Run diagnostic," he told JARVIS, and hit a button on the signal emitter, causing a tiny green light to start flashing, on-off, on-off. This all was entirely too black and white, and he was starting to suspect something…

"Running diagnostic."

He frowned as he watched files and images blink and flash, winking in and out of sight on the monitor as his program ran its hack. "This is too easy. Why is this too easy?" he wondered aloud. "This whole thing was designed by a genius— _for_ a genius. So what was he waiting for me find? What little present did you leave for me, Aldrich?"

As if in answer, a file appeared on the screen. "I've uploaded all available files, Sir, and though the majority appear, at first glance, to be corrupted beyond defragmentation, this one appears in its entirety—and, I might add, it seems to be the most interesting," JARVIS finally said.

It was a Word doc.

Just a plain Word doc and a few lines of text.

 _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall  
All the king's horses and all the king's men  
Couldn't put Humpty together again._

 _Tag. You're it. Race you to Avengers Tower._

Tony frowned, but a chill went up his back regardless. This was clearly some sort of bait to get him to go rushing back—but for what purpose? "What the fuck—am I supposed to be Humpty Dumpty, and we're all about to crash down? This is a stupid allusion."

JARVIS had two cents to add. "Might I suggest, Sir, that Mr. Killian is implying your demise at your own hands?"

Tony sighed, reaching up to rub at his tired eyes. "Yeah, thanks, J, I got that. Anything else?"

"There's this as well, Sir."

Another file popped up, this one more official looking, with lines and lines of tiny print.

Tony squinted at it. "Looks like some sort of design schematic…" It was a print of a detailed sketch, with arrows and identifiers.

"It appears to be some sort of explosive device, Sir. Might I direct your attention to the second illustration? The measurements would allow such a device to easily flow through a hypodermic needle, Sir."

His gaze followed to the bottom edge, where there was another small device, very tiny. "Some sort of transmitter, or…signal emitter?" Something prickled at the back of his neck—something resembling horror.

"I've uploaded it, Sir. It appears to be similar to an implantable tracking device—"

"Used for signaling some sort of…" He was already up and running, shoving the ear piece back in as hastily as he could as he dove back into the elevator. "Natasha!" he practically shouted, blowing on the security pad in the elevator again and frantically waving the doors shut. "Call Romanoff! I need to know _exactly_ where those three are—before something blows up!"

((()))

A gentle buzzing against her thigh brought Natasha out of her Captain America daydream, staring out the rear window of the tiny truck cab. Assuming it was the man in question, she put it to her ear, listening hard over the strains of 'Carry On, Wayward Son' currently booming out of the speakers behind her—not that she was complaining overmuch. "Hello?"

" _Don't_ make it obvious that you're talking to me," Tony Stark muttered urgently over the line.

She was silent, a low hum of panic starting at the base of her spine.

And Stark got the message. "Perfect. Listen, we might have a _problem_ , and I need to rely on your occasionally duplicitous nature and ask you to _absolutely_ , under _no_ circumstances, _whatsoever_ , let on what I am about to tell you to the two lovebirds." He sounded tense and extremely ill-at-ease.

She remained silent.

"You're awesome, Romanoff. I just finished searching an AIM base. Found a couple things that are alarming, but you _seriously_ can't tell Short Stack—or Jon Snow over there. I don't know exactly what he would do. I trust the kid, but he's still a little unpredictable and if he ever fits into any pre-determined categories in his _entire_ life, I'll be, frankly, shocked."

She'd almost forgotten how much Stark could ramble when he was nervous. But she was too tense, now, to find any humor in it.

"JARVIS did some hacking and caught a file that shows designs for schematics, one for what might be some sort of bomb, and the other a signal emitting device that has the capability of being injected with a needle." He paused here.

The words were heavy down the phone line, and for a moment, the weight of them didn't quite project.

The panic in her spine crawled its way up to the back of her neck in an icy jolt of horror as she put the pieces together.

"Obviously Killian set up some sort of contingency plan, and I'm trying not to feel guilty right now that said contingency appears to be using Darcy to take revenge on me."

Natasha stared ahead at the front seat, Darcy with her feet up on the dash, Bucky driving one-handed, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror and studying the traffic around them. She took stock as well, and as he changed lanes, her gaze caught on a particular black Ford F150 that casually followed suit.

The Winter Soldier's eyes flashed in the mirror, but he gave no other indication that he'd noticed.

She narrowed her eyes. It was true: he was a bit of an unknown, no matter how well anyone would ever know him. HYDRA had made him the perfect soldier, similar to herself: unpredictable, and, therefore, twice as dangerous. Although, that was seriously where their commonalities ended—serum or not, Natasha had no doubt, given their shared history, that James Barnes could bash her head in if he wanted to.

She was very, very grateful that this version of him had won. She had zero desire to be flung around by metal arms. Doing it once was more than enough. It was funny, really, the contrast of him. He was a walking oxymoron: designed to be capable of brutal violence but with no desire to use it. He was one of the gentlest guys she'd ever met—and the number she'd met in her violent past was _two_. She was married to one. And the other woman in the car with her—the closest thing a woman like her could have to a best friend—was married to the other. _Funny_ , she thought, _how things work out_.

"Just call me when you can get away, let me know how close you are to Manhattan. I'm calling a strategic retreat until we can classify _exactly_ what they did to _my girl_. I'm locking the place down as soon as I get back. I've had my fill of collateral damage. 10-4?" He was practically snarling, but it did little to hide the icy tone of fear in his voice from Natasha.

She took the opportunity to softly clear her throat.

Evidently taking that as confirmation, Tony ended the call.

Hands shaking slightly, she lowered the phone and slid it back into her pocket.

"Who was that?" Bucky asked from the front, leaning over to turn the volume down.

She was proud that she resisted the urge to jump.

Damn him, noticing everything. They were a good match, she and him—nearly even in terms of strategy. She swallowed. "Steve," she murmured, lying.

He held her gaze in the rearview mirror, and she had to force herself not to blink.

Finally, he looked away, back toward the road, making it clear without saying a word that he knew she was giving him a load of crap.

But she wasn't about to offer the truth. Tony was right—this had to sit on the back burner until they were back in Manhattan.

Darcy's head lolled gently against the headrest up front, and she shifted in her sleep. Natasha watched her restless frown in the side mirror and wondered if she was dreaming unpleasant dreams.

Bucky glanced over at her and subtly set his hand on her knee.

A moment later, she settled back into quiet sleep, the frown between her brows smoothing out.

A strange, warm, bittersweet tug plucked at Natasha's heart, but she looked away, back out the window, trying to ignore her horror at the way this was setting up for a shakedown. If Tony's suspicions were correct—and she'd never known him to be particularly wrong before—this could be catastrophic for their team.

And just when she'd started to feel at home…


	19. Chapter 19: Dust to Dust

**Chapter 19** **: Dust to Dust**

 **Summary:** **Some not so good news.**

 **Notes:** **So first thing's first: Don't worry, you guys! I'm not just gonna drag all y'all thru the mud to a nasty ending. This one's taking me a little longer to map out, but we're getting there! Just bear with me, I promise it'll be worth it.** **So that's it, really. I'll keep it short and sweet (and I won't mention that Game of Thrones finale-did you see that?! If I start, we'll be here all week) and let you have at it. Maybe, it being a holiday weekend, I'll post another chapter tomorrow. That being said, if you're in the US, happy Labor Day! Enjoy your day off! And if you're not, thanks for reading, and just have a great day in general! You deserve it! Love you all. As usual, an questions, shoot 'em my way, and keep me posted on how you're enjoying things.** **Also, as usual, I don't own Marvel or anything mentioned here. The chapter title is taken from the song of the same name by The Civil Wars.** **Sarah**

 **((()))**

Bucky drove for hours, there, on the open road somewhere in Central Pennsylvania. Maybe it was Natasha's suspicious conversation, which almost certainly hadn't been with Steve, but his mind was spinning.

Maybe it was Darcy, asleep and vulnerable in the passenger seat next to him.

At this point, he had to assume there was something strange going on here. He had no idea how they were being tracked with such exactness and finesse—he'd checked her _thoroughly_ for _any_ marks that would give away the large insertion point of a tracker—and it was getting to the point where he just wanted to make a straight shot home to Manhattan and not even bother stopping.

When they stopped, they were like sitting ducks. They'd come close enough already, regardless of his tireless fortitude.

Well. Maybe not so tireless.

He yawned, then leaned over to turn up the radio a little so that Oasis was just loud enough to keep him alert. He didn't want to wake Darcy. She needed to rest.

If he had to put money on it, Bucky was willing to bet that the Widow's mysterious caller had been Tony. And if he was playing poker against the inventor—which he would never be stupid enough to do, even with all his back pay from the Army—he'd raise the stakes under the assumption that he had some sort of lead that he didn't want Bucky to know about. Or Darcy. But Natasha needed the information on their way into Manhattan.

He frowned, thinking as he drove, slotting the pieces together.

Clearly Stark had managed to stumble across some sort of lead that had him scrambling for contact, and Bucky could think of only one instance that would cause a panicked reaction from a man like him—Darcy _was_ the danger.

Clenching his jaw, he let off the accelerator and eased onto the shoulder of the highway.

Darcy—mercifully—continued to sleep.

Natasha jerked upright, glancing around in alert surprise. "What—"

He turned to face her. "I won't ask you to betray your promise," he said, his voice low and hard. He knew who on the team needed which version of himself and he was not above sliding masks on and off to benefit his various circumstances with each of them. Natasha—with her rough past—was tricky, but she was not above intimidation. Unlike Steve, Bucky had a knack, now, for knowing exactly which buttons to press on just about everyone on the team. "I've been there. We practically share the same pair of shoes."

She narrowed her eyes, but he saw the color trickling around on her face.

"But I need to know where I'm going, Natalia. Am I clear for Manhattan?"

She hesitated, then relented, the battle lost to her. "As far as I know."

He nodded, then turned back around and pulled back out onto the lonely stretch of road.

"But, you—you can't possibly be thinking of going straight there," she protested, leaning forward between the two front seats. "We're too far out. Even you need your rest."

Annoyance bubbling in his gut, he just scowled at her in the rearview mirror. "I'm done stopping. It's too tight a finish. Don't worry about me. Go ahead and take a nap. Let me know when you need to call Stark."

He was almost ashamed of the vindication he felt at the telltale blush on her face.

Almost.

((()))

"So. Are you comfortable?" the man asked.

Darcy blinked, looking around, unsure just how she'd gotten there.

' _There'_ being home.

She was back in their Avengers Tower suite, sitting in her favorite chair by the massive windows, New York's vista skyline just a pane of glass away.

She shifted and blinked again, her confusion evaporating in the presence of an unanswered question. "Um. Yes. Very. Although some coffee would be nice." It didn't immediately occur to her that cordiality toward the man seated across from her might not be entirely warranted.

The man gestured toward the small end table that sat beside her chair.

She glanced over to find a cup sitting there, a familiar green logo on the side and steam issuing from the sipping hole. She could've sworn it hadn't been there a moment ago. "Oh." She smiled and picked it up, sipping carefully to avoid scalding her tongue. "Awesome."

"I'm glad you could join me this morning, Miss Lewis," her companion said, looking down at the clipboard in his lap.

She flinched at the name he used, but wasn't quite sure why. An unsettled feeling was sloshing around in her brain, but the reason evaded her. In fact, she felt very strange, almost as if she was having one of those…what were they called? An Out-Of-Body experience? Yeah, one of those. She'd heard them described before, and this sort of…fit the bill. She felt rather…unlike herself. So she nodded, unsure what else to do.

The man smiled, and it wasn't a normal smile, but something rather like dead flowers, sweet on the surface but sickeningly cloying beneath, the earthy scent of something being dragged back to its own ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

"We're all just shadows and dust, Maximus. Shadows and dust." Memory—or something vaguely akin to it—was seeping in around the edges of her consciousness.

The man frowned, that eerie smile faltering in a sour, put-out sort of way, as though, so far, they hadn't particularly followed the script as it was written. "I'm sorry?"

Darcy blinked, then realized she'd spoken aloud. Where had she heard that before? She'd heard it somewhere…somewhere before… "Sorry."

"So how are you this morning, Darcy?"

She thought about it. Was it odd that he was treating this like some sort of attempt at psychological evaluation? Wasn't there supposed to be a couch and a little water fountain burbling away, and a ticking clock on the wall? "Fine. I guess. Um. Where are we?" Annoyance tickled the back of her brain, the peaceful haze around the edges starting to sharpen.

The man blinked. "Well, you're home."

She nodded. "Right. But why am I _here_? I…I got _away_ from you."

Aldrich Killian smiled, wide and predatory. "Well, I should think that your subconscious mind summoned me here in order to work out some of its lingering…impressions, shall we say? We're in a place you're comfortable, a place you feel safe."

Sensation was beginning to trickle back into her body, setting her tingling. "Right. Because my conscious mind didn't get enough of you while you had me tied up like some S&M kink."

He chuckled. "I assumed, given your relationship with someone like the Winter Soldier, you'd be used to that sort of thing." He sneered, like she'd told him they had a secret sex tape.

She glared. "I didn't marry the _Winter Soldier_ , I married _James Barnes_ ," she snapped.

He clucked his tongue and looked out the window. "And I was _this_ close to collecting the both of you—I'd have had a matched set." He shook his head.

She sighed sharply. "How many people do I have to tell? You can't _have_ him. He's _mine_."

This didn't seem to faze him. "Shame. Although, if I play my cards right, I might still be able to make this work in my favor." He leaned forward. " _You_ are the key."

Ice shivered down her spine and a strange suction began in her belly, locking her to the chair like a suction cup. "Oh?"

He looked so serene. "If I can't have you, no one can. If having my moment of vengeance means sacrificing all my work, then _so be it_."

The ground shifted beneath her and the angle of light through the windows changed, like something out of _Inception_ , and she swung against the right arm of the chair.

But Killian didn't seem to notice. He hadn't even moved.

Alarmed, she could only glance around in rising panic. "What do you mean?"

"If nothing else, I have an instrument for his destruction. For the destruction of the entire beast. _Finally_. I'll show him what a handicap can really do. I'll fracture him and watch him crumble as I drag AIM into the fore, even if it's kicking and screaming."

Again, she was thrown back in her chair, a hum starting in her ears that had her heart racing in her chest, threatening to mutiny its way out. Anger and fear coalesced in her. "You so much as _touch_ him and I'll—"

"You'll _what_? You're helpless right now, Darcy. You're all mine, whether you realize it or not." He stood, then, and approached, and she was powerless, couldn't even move against the thrashing her body was mysteriously undergoing. "And you don't even know it yet, do you?" He placed his hands on the arms of her chair and boxed her in, leaning in close so that their noses nearly bumped.

She swallowed, latching on tight as she could to the arm rests, although they didn't feel as though they matched the chair anymore. Rather than soft plush, they were hard beneath her hands, plastic and foam cushioning, like a—

"Even your precious soldier won't be able to save you. It's _tragic_ , really, that he thinks he has. He revels that you're back in his arms after such a _harrowing_ ordeal. But it won't be enough. You'll sift like ash through his fingers, _Darcy Lewis_ , and he'll be powerless to stop it—in fact, perhaps he won't even be alive to feel the horror. It would be fitting, really, considering HYDRA always considered us a piggyback."

His mouth stretched wider, until he looked like a shark. "They'll see now, won't they? They'll stand in the ruins of their own demise and wonder where they went wrong, how they lost their grip on such a perfect world."

Darcy cringed back, but he only pressed forward, until his mouth was pressed almost tenderly against her cheek, his words like ice against her ear. "All because of one. Single. Woman."

Gasping, she finally managed to pull herself free with a gigantic mental wrench, and she came awake with a raw inhalation, like she'd been silently suffocating in her sleep.

Bucky glanced over at her, his brow creased in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Take the left lane," Natasha spoke from the back seat.

Barely looking, Bucky jerked the wheel and ignored the horn of a passing car on their left as he just barely edged into the fast lane, glancing in the rearview with a scowl. "I only count the red SUV. You?"

Natasha twisted to look behind them. "The G-Wagen," she confirmed with a single nod.

He growled thinly under his breath. " _Fucking_ Mercedes."

Darcy looked wildly around. "What's going on?"

"One last car chase before we hit New York," Bucky answered, his mouth set in a grim line. He reached over and turned up the volume on the radio until it was blasting in the closed cabin, and flicked the air conditioning up a notch, the sharp stream hitting Darcy right along her collar.

She flinched, reaching forward to shut her vent as the car lurched again, pressing her back. Whatever he needed to keep sharp, but she didn't need to freeze her ass off. "We're _that_ close to New York?!"

Natasha was calm and cool in the backseat, head down as she checked the clip on her Glock 26. "You've been asleep for hours and your husband really knows how to bury the accelerator. We're coming up on Philly."

That explained the crush of traffic around them. They were surrounded and careening forward in the pack like a pinball.

Bucky's driving was incredible. The way he weaved in and out of cars, his head constantly moving, his reflexes whip-fast, made Darcy curious what he would be like on a motorcycle, and that sort of thing had never been a particular turn-on for her before.

Shoving the thought aside, she whipped around for a better look at their pursuers. About three cars back, kitty-korner, was a red Mercedes SUV, huge and scary looking, with tinted windows. The only reason it wasn't closer on them was the intense traffic heading into Philadelphia.

If traffic thinned, they were fucked.

Or, at least, they were in for another bumpy ride.

She sighed. God, hadn't they had enough of those lately? "All I wanted was three weeks with my guy. That's all I wanted."

Bucky switched lanes again.

Surprisingly, it was Natasha who responded, her voice low. "I'm sorry, Darce."

"There's no room to get off," Bucky said, his voice tense as he glared in the rearview mirror.

"What do we do?" she asked.

He sighed. "I've really had my fill of collateral damage," he ground out, the sexy muscle in his jaw ticking, once, twice. "But they haven't exactly given us a choice."

The strange dream she'd only just woken from fizzed in her mind, and she chewed on her lip the next few minutes, trying to puzzle it out.

"Darce, the SIG should be right on top," Bucky suddenly cut in, slicing her ragged thoughts off cleanly and snapping her out of it.

Moving mechanically, she tried to get those thoughts into some semblance of order. Hell, it was just a stupid dream, nothing more than her overworked, overtired, over-stimulated subconscious trying to work out all the kinks of the last few weeks.

A month.

Oh, _God_ , they'd been gone a _month_. A month since they'd seen home, a month since she'd last seen Tony.

Something about that stung, and she yanked at the zipper on the pack and pulled out the SIG, right on top, just like he'd said, and zipped it shut again. "Plan?" she asked, dumping out the magazine to check it. He'd reloaded it at some point. She shoved it back shut again with the heel of her hand and glanced over to find him watching her with burst pupils.

Recalling his comment about her and automatic weapons turning him on, she smirked, reached over to shove his shoulder, and tried to focus.

There was a rare moment of levity between them, and not a word was spoken. If Natasha noticed, she didn't mention anything.

But then, as usual, it broke.

"Right side," the Widow said from the back.

"I know," Bucky replied, eyes sharp on the side mirror. "I can't go anywhere."

The SUV—tinted windows and all—bumped them and jostled traffic around them, right, then left, then right again.

Bucky swore a blue streak in Russian, Natasha echoing him in the backseat, his knuckles white on the wheel as he attempted to keep it steady.

Darcy kept the SIG tight in her grip.

But there were no shots fired.

A gigantic game of bumper cars ensued, with Bucky getting in far fewer hits than the Mercedes, as he didn't want anyone else on the highway caught up in their fight.

After ten minutes and a crushed fender, he managed to squeeze into the center lane in front of the boxy truck—

Which immediately hit the gas and bumped their backend, pressing them forward.

"Fuck," Bucky growled out, standing on the brake pedal.

The tires squealed in violent protest.

A car honked off to their right.

Smoke billowed as their tires started to burn against the black pavement.

The car in front of them rushed to move out of their way.

Bucky gunned it ahead, cutting over into the far right lane as smoothly as possible, ignoring further honks from the surrounding vehicles.

Darcy hung on for dear life. "Would it help if I clicked my heels together and repeated, 'There's no place like home?'?!" she shouted over the road noise.

Bucky glanced wildly at all the mirrors, searching for an out, but the nearest exit was still half a mile ahead. "I _hated_ that movie when I saw it in the theater—don't you _dare_."

She couldn't help the slightly hysterical laugh that bubbled up out of her. "Careful, babe—your Old Man is showing," she quipped, grabbing for the dash as they were shoved again from behind.

Natasha snorted in the back seat. "Stealing that one."

"This is exactly what I _didn't_ want," he snarled as he hit the gas, urging the car in front of them to get out of their way. "I didn't want them _behind_ us."

The little old man in the old Buick gestured rather rudely and drifted left with no blinker, eliciting further horn honking in the rear. Bucky threw them onto the off-ramp, careening at over ninety, pushing the pick-up hard.

Natasha huffed as they were bumped again and her hair was tossed over her face. "Why?"

As though the universe was taking a written invitation, there was a distinct clanking that came, at that moment, from beneath the car.

" _Shit_." Bucky swore.

"What was that?" the spy asked, frowning in suspicion.

"You _had_ to ask," Darcy snapped.

"Tasha, get _DOWN_!" Bucky lunged across the seat and curled himself around Darcy just as the truck was rocked forward off its light, empty trail bed and flipped over itself, just like the last time they'd come across a disc grenade.

Only this time, Darcy was jostled free and as the back of her head smacked against the hard plastic dash, the world went black.

((()))

"Wait, did you say _G-Wagen_?" a voice asked, as though from some distance away. "As in _Mercedes_? A _Mercedes G-Wagen_ was chasing you down the highway?"

A familiar voice sighed. " _Yes_ , Tony. A Mercedes G-Wagen—No, I said, _I'm fine_. Thank you, but I'm fine. Not even bruised anymore. Like I'm fucking Wolverine…"

"But Sergeant B—"

"Don't call him that, kid—he'll rip your face off."

Another sigh. "Tony…"

"It's alright, Hans. I'm just messin' with ya. You can get outta here."

"…He's sure she's alright?"

"Might have a mild concussion, but with her condition, we can't be sure. Said she'll come around."

She squeezed her eyes shut and a tiny groan escaped, a dull ache pounding in her brow.

"Oh, hey—speak of the devil. Here she is."

A very gentle, warm hand wrapped around hers and a shadow overtook the pale light bleeding through her eyelids. "Mm-fuck," she hissed.

"I'm here, dollface," Bucky spoke, his voice low and gentle.

Sharp, intense longing hit her square in the sternum. "Jamie…"

"I'm right here. You're alright." How did he manage to pitch his voice to make it so soothing?

"Move away from the light, Short Stack. Move away from the light and toward the sound of my voice."

She cracked her eyes open and glared up at Tony Stark's impish smirk. "Very funny, Boss Man."

He grinned. "Oh, she's calling me Boss Man—she's fine. All is right with the world."

She was in a Quinjet. The back hangar was open, and sunlight was spilling up the ramp, cutting directly across her, and the blanket beneath her was warm. Tony was crouched at her left and Bucky was kneeling on her right, one leg tucked beneath him.

She managed to turn her head, wincing at the jab of pain that caught the back of her neck. Natasha was a few yards away, being tended to by a SHIELD operative in a white coat. She looked like Darcy felt, a red welt blooming on her brow and a dirty cut sliced diagonally across her cheek was currently being swabbed. She winced and scowled.

Steve was huddled close to her on the ground, sitting cross-legged as near to her as he could get, a worried frown creasing his brow.

The spy looked over and saw her. They shared a moment of mutual suffering, and the redhead smirked.

Grimacing, she got her hands under her and moved to sit up—

"Ah-ah," Bucky stopped her with a vibranium hand to the shoulder. "Where do you think _you're_ going?"

"I—"

" _You_. Are going to lie back until you don't look like you're two seconds from passing out," he finished for her, giving her a stern look.

She sighed, half glad for the excuse to be lazy. Her body felt like it weighed a ton and the blanket beneath her was throbbing with heat. She let the sun beat down on her and took inventory of her limbs. Hands intact. Some scrapes on her right arm, no big deal. Her clothing looked a little singed, but otherwise whatever. Ugh, she'd have to toss the t-shirt.

Her head, though. Her head felt like it was only attached to her body by a thin, raw thread of flesh and there was an ache behind her eyes that was quickly becoming an intense throb, well on its way to crossing into unbearable territory. "Ugh, shit," she breathed. "I thought I was made of tougher stuff than this…?"

Bucky tightened his grip on her hand.

Tony smirked. "Yeah, well, your blood work is somewhat outdated, now, wouldn't you say?" He gave her a wry look. "We'll have to start all over—safe to say, though, that you and Romanoff are on pretty equal footing. Whatever edge she might have over you with her stronger serum is leveled by whatever you've got of Extremis. Both of you are watered down, though."

She grimaced again. "Yay, us."

Bucky frowned. "I thought I had you. I'm sorry. You cracked your head pretty hard on the dash."

She let her eyes slide shut again. "Not your fault, baby."

"I—"

"Shut _up_ ," she said, cutting him off.

She actually _heard_ his jaw snap shut.

Footsteps. "Darcy—are you ready for a statement?"

" _Really_ , Hill?" Tony said, sounding indignant. "Girl's got a concussion."

Darcy gestured left without opening her eyes. "Yeah. What he said."

Maria paused, and Darcy could practically picture the women's face, pinched and annoyed. "It'll only take a second—it might give us a lead on—"

"Oh, suddenly this takes precedence over the weapons trafficker in Cuba?" Tony snarked.

She groaned as a particularly sharp burst of pain lit up her eyelids.

" _No_." Bucky spoke plainly, but his voice was that certain tone of low that said 'Back off' without him needing to say it. His hand tightened around hers again.

Even Tony fell silent.

Then her footsteps receded and she was gone.

She sighed. "Okay, seriously, I'm sitting up. I won't be carried around on a fucking stretcher—I've gotta do it eventually."

Bucky sighed and she opened her eyes to give him a level stare. "You gonna help or you gonna bitch?"

Rolling his eyes, he settled his metal arm around her back and tugged on her hand.

Tony supported her other side.

"Why on earth did I marry such a stubborn woman?"

She smirked. "Because you think it's sexy," she quipped.

But there was sweet humor in his eyes. "God help me, I do."

Tony laughed, loudly, in her ear, the sound so infectious she couldn't help but grin.

The hangar spun around her and she grabbed on, latching onto Bucky's arm for support as she tilted crookedly into him.

His arm snaked around her waist. "I've gotcha," he murmured in her ear. "You're okay, I've gotcha."

"Head between the knees," Tony reminded her and he tugged at her left knee in an attempt at bending her over. Just like that, she was staring at the black floor of the hangar ramp, breathing deeply through her nose and trying not to tip over.

"Getting major déjà vu, here, Tony."

He chuckled.

"Hey, who have you gotta pay around here to get two nurses?" Natasha shouted, her voice carrying easily in the hollowed out space. "What's the deal? I've only got the one and he's too whiny. I want another one."

Steve made noises of complaint, and Natasha laughed.

"You didn't file the appropriate paperwork, Romanoff. This one here's a whiz at that stuff. She oughta train you," Tony yelled back.

Bucky was too busy rubbing small circles on her back to join in the ribbing, speaking softly to her in Russian.

It took a long time for the dizziness to slacken, and Tony joked quietly at her while Bucky administered the comfort; they were a good team. It was weird, really. The age difference that wasn't an age difference, but sort of really was an age difference. The fact that Tony repelled most people simply because they didn't take the time to understand him. The little detail that Bucky had killed his parents in cold blood.

But they got each other in a strange way.

And their love for her drew them tightly together.

Eventually they got her to standing, and Darcy made a statement with Maria, who needled and provoked until Darcy told her to _shut the fuck up_. Tony cackled loudly as they made their way down the ramp and out of the Quinjet.

It turned out that after the disc grenade had launched them end over end, Bucky had been the only one conscious and he'd managed to find Natasha's Starkphone, somehow, in the mess. Their pursuers mysteriously didn't pursue them any further—perhaps assuming they were dead.

He'd called Tony, who had flown most of the team out on two Quinjets, and they'd landed right on the grassy shoulder of the highway off-ramp.

And in typical Tony fashion, he was totally ignoring the elephant in the room while going out of his way to make sure every single one of her needs might be catered to, and even with her own husband there.

It was almost like he'd adopted the both of them.

"Tony, really. I'm fine. I mean, I'm a little beat up, but Jami—"

He cut her off as they came onto the grass, forcing her to shut up as he engulfed her in a huge hug, his arms snug around her and his hand cupping the back of her head gently. "Missed you, Darce," he murmured as Bucky drifted off to check on Natasha, pointedly giving them a minute.

She let him hold her up, pressing her face against his shoulder, his soft t-shirt full of his familiar smell—engine grease and motor oil, and a little laundry detergent. "I'm not Short Stack right now, huh?"

"Nope. Not right now."

She could actually hear him swallow.

"Really glad you're okay, kiddo."

It felt exceedingly wonderful, his warmth around her. Truthfully, it made her feel almost foolishly special—she was one of the few who had managed to gain Tony Stark's affection. That was a feat, in itself. "I'm okay, Boss Man."

If Tony was there…she was halfway home.

((()))

"So why are we going upstate?" she asked as she tipped herself into the co-pilot's chair of the Quinjet an hour later. Some extended release SHIELD pill was going to work on her headache and she absolutely had to sit down. Steve was cooing over Natasha in the back and she left them to it, twisting around so she could look at the inventor without straining her neck.

Tony flicked a button on the console and the jet leveled out. " _Automatic controls_ ," JARVIS announced. "Some info I stumbled across at an AIM base out near LA," he said, off-handedly.

She blinked. "You found an AIM base?"

"Yep. After a creepy, yet eerily pleasant phone call I had with Aldrich Killian."

She did a double-take. " _Killian_? Called you? Killian _called_ you?"

He flicked another switch. This one just blinked. "Yep. Traced it too."

"You mean he _let_ you trace it," Bucky countered, pulling a leg up beneath him in the passenger seat between them and a little behind.

Tony pointed to him. "Right."

"And it just _happened_ to put you at his home base? So you just _went_ over there?"

He shrugged. "Of course. Totally abandoned. But he left me a creepy message. And JARVIS uploaded everything. We're still sifting through it, but we found a schematic for an explosive."

"So you wanna go to the base upstate in case there's a bomb in the Tower?" she filled in.

He pointed again. "Right."

"Have they found anything in the Tower?" Bucky asked, glancing back over his shoulder as Natasha laughingly told Steve to knock it off, she was fine, for God's sake, or she was going to smack him.

"The shakedown won't start until absolutely _everyone_ is out. I've called for a complete lockdown. Business is shutting down until further notice. Some suits and admin people are still getting some last minute stuff together, and then the squads are going in."

She folded her arms over her chest and sighed. "This is getting insane."

Bucky was scowling at Stark, outright. "Anything else you wanna share?"

But Tony flicked another button, smooth as silk. "You should'a seen the message he left me. ' _Humpty Dumpty'_." He gave a melodramatic shudder. "Creepy fuck."

Darcy snorted. "Implying a great fall?"

Tony heaved a sigh and pulled off his glasses, setting them on the console. "I'm assuming, yeah. How about you two? You seem like you're in one piece—and when I say 'one piece', I mean that it looks like you wanna go devour each other in the loading bay in celebration that you're both alive."

Bucky sighed.

Darcy felt her cheeks flame. "Actually, no. Not at the current moment, but thank you for the opportunity to blush. It's much appreciated."

"Hey—I'm happy to serve," he quipped.

"I've never been to the base upstate—I've heard it's huge—and cushy."

"Yeah, it's a non-small space. You two get a huge suite, but the way it's set up there, you'll be sharing a two-bedroom condo with Rogers and the Widow."

Bucky huffed. "Stevie snores loud enough to wake the dead."

"Do not!" Steve called from the back.

"Yeah, you do," both he and Natasha said—at once.

Tony cackled.

"I practically slept on top of you for long enough, I ought to know, Rogers. Had to make sure you didn't freeze to death, since you couldn't manage to keep any meat on those bones."

"Ooh, I'm hearing a scandal—what's this?" Tony snarked, smirking devilishly. " _Captain America and His Childhood Friend Become Lovers_? It's a headline. I'm calling _20/20_.

There was a moment's pause where Steve could be heard breathing deeply.

"You better stop, Stark, he's turning purple back here," Natasha called.

Still chuckling, Tony continued. "Anyway, I packed a bunch of your stuff. Bruce is coming so he can run full diagnostics on both of you—that's right, _both_. I'm not taking any chances. Just about the whole team's on the way, now, we're just waiting on Barton. He ran home quick to secure the farm and he'll be joining us." He gestured at Darcy. "Unfortunately, kid, that means Foster's coming along, too. Some crap about getting astronomical readings for coordinates she hadn't mapped yet. So…you'll have to…deal with that." He offered a sympathetic look.

She sighed and settled back in the bucket seat. "It says a lot about this whole fiasco that you telling me that just doesn't even register anymore."

It was a smooth ride over the hills of New York, and soon—a light cat nap later, of course—they were coming over a low ridge to see the New Avengers Facility, all in white, like a huge, sprawling car dealership, glass and metal everywhere, sleek and advanced. There was a pad for the jets where Tony set it down with extra care not to jostle his two injured damsels, and they disembarked, carefully, the two old geezers assisting on the uneven ramp.

The grass was green and bright in the summer sun. Darcy felt like it had been forever since she'd seen real grass in more than a small, sidewalk patch with a lamppost and a garbage bin. She longed to explore the rest of the facility, but Bucky steered her through the doors, JARVIS greeted them, and Tony personally shadowed them all to the suite they'd be sharing at the corner of the second floor.

Natasha shut the left-hand bedroom door firmly behind them without a word.

Darcy collapsed across the huge, L-shaped lounger, built-in cup holders, massaging back and everything. "I really want some sex, but I'm not sure I could stay awake long enough," she murmured as Bucky sat down beside her and wrapped a hand around her knee. "How quick could you be?"

He laughed wryly. "Implying I'm nothing more than a means to an end?" he teased.

She giggled lazily, an eyebrow quirking up. "Exactly."

But her hand settled over his on her leg and he could read otherwise. "We've got company."

She snorted. "You think that's stopping _them_?" She gestured at the closed bedroom door.

He stood. "Good point. But you're gonna let _me_ lead—you're supposed to be taking it easy." He gave her a stern look as he picked her up.

"I was counting on it."

She was tired and her body pliant, and she wove her hands into his hair and clutched at his back, clinging to him, her legs locked around his waist. She responded much too easily and he let his focus relax, his mouth trailing along her collar bones.

Her body felt different beneath him, tighter and worked over by whatever was swimming in her veins. There was more there under his hands and her legs latched around his hips were tighter, her breathing slower.

The sensitivity hadn't changed though.

She came for him twice— _hard_ —clenching her jaw shut as though she tried not to scream, her nails threatening to actually draw blood at his back.

They lay close and talked, then, listening to the birds singing through the open window of the bedroom.

She fell asleep an hour later, sated and warm, and tucked against his shoulder.

For a long time, he watched her sleep, her breathing even and her face relaxed and still, her long lashes dark against her ivory complexion. She had a few freckles dotting her nose from the Hawaiian sun. Her full lips were dark and pink and freshly bitten. There was still high color in her cheeks and the circles under her eyes weren't as dark as they'd been. She sighed, shifting in her sleep and tilting her head away, revealing her bare ears.

Studs, he thought, an idea finally coming to him. He could get her diamond studs for her birthday. Big ones. She'd hate that a little, until she put them on.

Very gently, he eased out of bed, careful not to wake her, and got dressed in a t-shirt and his favorite pair of lounge pants, stupidly pleased that Tony had packed the right ones.

He found Steve in the kitchen making tea, searched the sea of cabinets until he found a mug, plucked the chamomile from the sampler box his friend was sifting through and slapped it all down on the counter without a word.

"I forgot—you're a chamomile guy," Steve said, voice low as he frowned at the box.

Bucky smirked as he leaned a hip on the counter. It had been a long time since he'd seen Steve in a pair of boxers in a kitchen and he had to laugh. "Let me guess—there's no Mint offering in there?"

Captain America let out a grudging grunt and set the box down. "No. Have to go with Lemon."

Bucky chuckled. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Are you kidding?"

The kettle started to whistle and he retrieved it. "Me neither. Darcy knocked right off, though."

Steve started tugging the paper off the tea bags. "Yeah, Tasha too."

They stood in the kitchen for an hour, shooting the breeze and drinking.

"You okay?" Steve finally asked him, giving him his earnest look.

Bucky rolled his eyes, sighing. "Don't gimme that look, Stevie—you've been using it for decades. I'm fine. Worried about Darcy, that's all."

Captain America's eyes narrowed. "You're acting different."

Bucky set his empty mug in the sink. " _'Different'_ how?"

"I dunno. Just different. Tasha noticed it, too. You're stiff. Stiffer than you've been since…well, since you met Darce."

Bucky gave him a look over his shoulder.

"Alright," Steve relented, holding up his hands in surrender. "Alright, I get it. I'm pushing— _again_. I'm good at that—"

"Yes. You are."

"I _know_. You don't…tell me things anymore. I guess that's…that's what Darcy's for. And I can't pretend I don't do the same with Nat. But…"

"What?"

Steve looked uncharacteristically vulnerable, and he lowered his eyes. "Things are…things are still the same, right? I mean…I mean, I don't want things to change. Like, between us. I worry that…"

"That I'm not the same Bucky?" Bucky asked, pointedly, raising his brows.

Steve started fussing with his tea bag and didn't look up.

He gave a wry laugh. "I'm _not_ the same Bucky."

Steve nodded. "Things just seem unsteady, that's all."

Bucky cocked his head. "You're forgetting something, Stevie."

He looked up. "What?"

Bucky smirked. "You're not the same _Steve_." He tried to be gentle. For as strong as Steve was, he had a tiny little squashy pit in him somewhere that Bucky had always tried to protect. He was like steel, his friend, and he always had been. But he was vulnerable in ways that would never go away. Sickly for much of his early life, losing his father and then his mother, living check to check and hanging on by his fingertips had had a bilateral effect on him, making him strong…but sensitive.

He nodded. "I know. But you…you were…" He sighed, pulling a hand through his hair. "We've never really talked about this."

Bucky shrugged. "There's not much to talk about. They… _made_ me…into something they could use. They fundamentally altered me, Stevie. They made me different, so…I'm different. There's no coming back from that. No matter how much time goes by, no matter how many different ways you psychoanalyze it, it still comes back to that. I'm _different_ now. So are _you_. You went into that ice a different guy. The guy that came out was someone else. You think you're the same Stevie I remember?"

Steve swallowed, determinedly not looking up.

"You're not. Because people change. But they don't. You know?"

Steve nodded, working his jaw nervously.

"I'm still with ya to the end of the line," he said, his voice low, and he reached over to bump his shoulder with his metal arm. "That's _not_ gonna change."

Color rising in his cheeks, Steve smiled. "Glad you're alright."

He smiled back. "That makes two of us."

((()))

The New Avengers Facility was a sprawling base unlike anything Darcy had ever seen before. There were training facilities, and conference rooms, and hangars, and storage units filled with Tony's toys. JARVIS was plugged in here too, of course. He made Darcy jump the next morning when—all of them realizing belatedly that no one had bothered to adapt his settings the day before—he came alert at six am, spouting off with the latest news and weather. Finally, Bucky threw his arm out from beneath the covers, hit a button on the wall, silenced him, and, after a pause, Natasha yelled "Thanks, Buck!"

The suite they shared with Steve and Natasha was truly a condo—a very large condo, all in white and chrome, with a wall of windows overlooking the back of the grounds, the field of grass, and the woods beyond. The kitchen was small but well-stocked, the couch really was gigantic, the wall-mounted TV reminiscent of the one they had at home, and the bed—the bed—was a sea of perfection.

And it seemed the whole place was one of perfect design. It was one huge above-ground bunker, state-of-the-art, technologically advanced and a total maze if you weren't paying attention to where you were going at all times. Darcy got hopelessly turned around that afternoon, glaring down hallways until she finally ran across Tony in his home-away-from-home, a large, open-plan shop.

Three floors of totally Stark-designed paradise.

There was a ridiculous lounge area with squashy pillows, a fully-stocked bar, and a kitchen to kill for—which Darcy quickly utilized, baking three cakes all in one day as a thank-you for the team effort of getting the beach house searched. Tony came immediately upon smelling the cinnamon wafting through the halls and claimed the entire coffeecake for himself, _literally_ absconding with the warm pan. Darcy laughed, staring as she stirred, as he came in, paused in the doorway, narrowed his eyes at her, crossed the room, snatched it up, planted a kiss to the top of her head, and crossed straight back out again without a _single_ word, one giant grease stain running from his cheekbone down his jaw.

The Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie quickly attracted the attention of Natasha, who took a slice far too large for someone so thin, and the Devil's Food had Bucky sniffing around, and he stayed to do the dishes while Barton and Sam forged an alliance to get the coffeecake back from Stark. He licked the spoon before tossing it in the sink and Darcy laughed, feeding him forkfuls while his hands were immersed in soap suds.

Laughing at the romance novel feel of it, she tugged him—still with wet hands—into a nearby supply closet, wedged a stool against the door, and yanked until he'd pinned her against the shelves. Still half dressed as they bucked against each other, it became an unspoken game of eye contact as to who would be the first to fail at keeping silent. Neither of them broke, but Darcy—fumbling for purchase—did manage to knock a glass jar off the shelf behind her, sending it crashing, shattering loudly, to the floor. "Oh, _fuck_ ," she whispered, and Bucky wasn't sure what she was reacting to, the intensity of her fading orgasm or the fact that she'd made a small ruckus as a result.

That afternoon, Bruce hugged her and took half a pint of blood from her arm, frowning as the puncture site shut immediately, and let her go quickly with a promise to call them both back for full physicals after they'd had a long-enough period of rest. Darcy wasn't sure how long that was supposed to be, but she wasn't going to complain—and she certainly wasn't going to mention the fact that their scandalous escapade in the kitchen store closet _certainly_ wasn't what most medical professionals would consider ' _resting'_. If nothing else, while _resting_ , she knew her heart worked just fine.

They explored the grounds, a sprawling hundred-acre clearing, with a path that wound around for working out and into the surrounding woods for perimeter checks and leisurely activity.

She and Natasha went on quiet walks together while the boys sparred, he and Steve against Clint, Sam, and some guy named Scott that Darcy thought was cute but hadn't formally been introduced to yet. Tony explained Hank Pym's work in physics and atomic research, and his suit sounded all sorts of wicked. She stood outside the gym and watched them, Steve and Bucky moving together like a well-oiled machine, the other three laughing as they were repelled again and again, and constantly coming up with new—and sometimes worthwhile—attack strategies.

Finally—and surprisingly—it was Scott that landed her husband on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and he laughed, fist in the air. "Nice job, man. But can you do it again?"

She smiled, but it quickly vanished as Thor appeared to join them and Jane followed in his wake.

There was some good-natured arguing concerning which side Thor would join, but bets were placed and he teamed up with Bucky and Steve, to the sound of much groaning, and the fighting started all over again.

"Hi," Jane said, quietly, crossing her arms over her chest and watching through the glass beside her.

"Hey," Darcy returned.

Jane chuckled, awkwardly, as though reaching for a topic. "If I stand here long enough, will I get to see the Winter Soldier appear?"

Darcy sighed heavily and walked away, straight into Tony, who'd been coming down the stairs that led to the upper floors.

"Hey, Short Stack," he greeted cheerfully. "Whatcha up to?"

She brushed past him. " _Taking a nap_."

((()))

"I'm not claustrophobic," Darcy declared, mostly to herself, later that evening. "I'm not claustrophobic _at all_." She took a deep breath, but her chest brushed the interior wall of the MRI machine regardless.

"I'm right here, Darce. You're good," Bucky reassured her distantly.

The machine beeped.

"Would it sound super childish if I said I really, _really_ wanted to hold your hand right now?" she called tremulously.

"Sorry, babe. The set up isn't really designed with comfort in mind."

She tried to breathe deeply again. "Fuck, fuck, _fuckity_ fuck."

"Almost done, Darcy," Bruce's voice patched in through the window in the side set up for communication. He was outside, in the little operating booth, working the monstrous contraption. "Can you turn you head to the right for me?"

She did.

"Okay, good. Now try not to move."

"Sure," she muttered breathlessly. "No problem."

"I'm right here. Just breathe," Bucky called again. "Almost done."

While the images were drawn up by the computer, Darcy was poked and prodded, treated to a full physical and had yet more blood drawn. Bucky received the same, making a fist for Bruce, who was extremely appreciative of the huge vein in his muscular right arm. Darcy stared, transfixed even though she saw his bare arms at least once a day.

Then they were shooed so Bruce could study the scans from Darcy.

Still exhausted, she lazed on the couch, reading while Bucky made tea. Steve and Natasha returned from their own activities and the spy joined her on the couch, watching the boys move around the space.

Around four, there was a knock at the door. Frowning in confusion, Bucky answered, pulling it open to reveal Tony, grinning widely and holding numerous pizza boxes in one hand and _I,Robot_ in the other. "So I just realized, now, that we never watched this," he said to Bucky, then peaked over his shoulder at Darcy. "That one morning—remember?" He winked.

Darcy sighed heavily. "Oh, I remember. I also remember Jane asking me what I had in my will in case I died."

Bucky turned to look at her with a protective glare on his face. " _What_? Why would she ask you that?"

Tony chuckled. "The irony that it's _you_ who's asking is hilarious, even though it shouldn't be."

Natasha snorted, once, and that was it.

Bucky blinked, but took a step back, allowing the inventor into the room. "Do I have to have a talk with Thor, or what? It's been long enough since we met, Darcy—is this seriously _still_ a problem? How _old_ is Jane?"

It was Darcy's turn to snort derisively. "Good question."

Tony came in and set the pizzas down on the kitchen island. "Yeah, Darce gave her a pretty good dressing down."

"What did this 'dressing down' include?" Steve joined in, one eyebrow chinked up knowingly.

Darcy gave him a flat, level look. "The words 'fuck' and 'you'."

Bucky sighed. "How did I know that would be the answer?"

Darcy stood, finally hauling herself off the couch, and offered her hands to Natasha. "Yeah, well, she kept calling me stupid. I snapped."

Natasha took the offered assistance and let herself be pulled off the furniture with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Was I supposed to just stand there and let her talk to me like a small child?"

Tony waved a hand and set the DVD case on the coffee table. "You handled it fine, Short Stack. Don't worry about it. She'll screw her head back on straight eventually."

"She called you _stupid_?" Bucky asked, quietly, looking confused.

"I was a witness," Stark said. "She did, in fact, use the word 'stupid', yes."

"Why?" Steve asked, coming around the kitchen island with a stack of napkins.

Natasha snorted again, but was otherwise silent.

Tony just stared at him.

Darcy, one hand on her hip, offered Bucky, channeling Vanna White.

Steve blinked. "Oh. She's still on that, huh?"

Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes. "I suppose I'm playing my part wrong, aren't I? Should I start shadowing you down hallways and pulling out Gerber knives behind your back at random? Would that be more appropriate?"

Again, Natasha snorted, just once.

But he was getting into it now, his expression grim. "I could really play it up at the next team meeting! Get my hands around your throat, and everything!"

"If you made the appropriate choking noises, Darce, Hill and Foster would light up!" Tony added, smirking.

"And then Maria will shoot you in the head!" Darcy joined in, grinning falsely. "Great idea, guys! Sounds like fun!"

They all hunkered down with pizza and Darcy put on the movie. Clint showed up, poking his head in an hour later, his brow creased in curiosity, and he promptly devoured five slices of pizza.

Pepper came in quietly after that, stole a single slice while she handled a business call, kissed Tony on the cheek, and walked right back out again.

Tony came up with a drinking game, regardless of the fact that only he and Barton were really capable of getting drunk, and the fact that the only liquor that was on hand was a bottle of cheap vodka Tony had used to christen the place upon completion of construction. Every time Will Smith swore at an NS-5 robot, he and Clint had to take a shot. Fairly soon, the two of them were giggling like little girls, and Darcy made the comment that a drinking game where Will Smith curses out the bad guys was a seriously lukewarm idea.

They just giggled again.

Rolling her eyes, she went into the kitchen.

Bucky followed her. "You didn't mention all that with Jane," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder at a new bout of laughter.

"Yeah, I did. Remember? Nat and I got together, you went to meet with Steve?"

He nodded. "Of course, but you didn't mention that she called you _stupid_. That's…"

"Over the line?" she supplied.

" _Inaccurate_."

She blinked. "I don't think she was questioning my _overall_ intelligence, just my intelligence concerning my decision to share a bed with you—"

" _I don't care_ ," he hissed lowly, cutting his eyes back again.

She sighed as she pulled open the fridge and studied the contents. "So…what? You're gonna march over to their suite and tattle on her to Thor that I told you Jane was being mean to me?"

He huffed. "No, of _course_ not! It just…it lends a new…angle to all this."

She pursed her lips and stuck her hand in, sifting through various things. "Jamie, I'll admit I was feeling a little like Bella Swan a while back—with the exception of the fact that I would be capable of acting my way out of a paper bag, but that's beside the point—but that's done now."

" _Is_ it?"

She turned and studied him, still bent over. "I didn't choose Jacob, babe. I chose Edward."

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm just _barely_ following this reference, FYI."

She rolled her eyes, finally grabbed a Dr. Pepper, and shut the fridge with her hip. "I'm just saying, _nothing's_ changed. If Jane's outta my life, then she's outta my life. That's it. I can't change her mind for her."

He took a breath. "Are you _sure_ that she is?"

She shrugged and popped the can open with a hiss. "That's up to _her_. But if she's spontaneously decided to grow the fuck up, she'll have to work it. I'm not meeting her halfway. I've done nothing wrong."

"Here, here!" Tony crowed unexpectedly, raising his shot glass with a grin.

" _Yeah_!" Clint agreed, much too loudly, and they threw back, not even watching the movie.

"Play nice, children!" Darcy scolded, smirking, and flapped her hand at the screen. "Look—robots going boom! Watch that, let the adults finish their discussion."

Tony giggled. "But—"

"Don't make me say it twice!" she interrupted.

Clint stuck his tongue out at her and the two of them dissolved into yet more laughter.

"Laura's gonna kill me," she declared.

"Don't forget Pepper," Bucky added.

"Nah, she knows how her husband operates."

Just then there was another knock.

"I'll get it—you go back to the movie. Keep an eye on those two, I think Steve's ready to hide the bottle." She pecked him on the mouth and they separated.

She stared as she held the door open, her jaw clenched tight. "Appropriate timing."

"Hey," Jane said, waving awkwardly. "I, um…"

"'Nother shot! The VICKI is fucking crazy!" Clint declared in a non-whisper.

Jane frowned. "You…have company."

Darcy sighed. "Yep. Never watch _I,Robot_ with a genius physicist-slash-engineer."

Jane nodded. "I was hoping…we could—"

"Who's at the door, babe?" Bucky asked, appearing behind her.

She cocked her head, giving him a look. He'd known very well who. But she played along. "Jane."

He wrapped his arms around her and cuddled her from behind. "Oh, okay. Just FYI, you're gonna need to hustle Clint out pretty soon. Stark's drinking him under the table."

" _Oh_!" Tony yelled. "We should _totally_ play a board game when this is over!"

" _Clue_!" Clint insisted.

"I can't say I'm surprised at _Tony_ , but I wasn't expecting _Clint_ to be a stupid drunk," she muttered.

Jane stood there, eyes downcast.

"So, sorry, but we're sorta busy," Darcy started.

"Yeah," Bucky added. "Later, the two of us are gonna play a game, where I chase her around with a knife and then try to strangle her in her sleep!"

Darcy sighed.

Jane stared, wide-eyed. " _What_?"

"Yeah!" he continued, totally natural. "It's _great_! Sometimes she doesn't wake up for a full minute and I have to revive her so no one finds out I'm still a psycho assassin bent on world domination!"

"Jamie…"

Jane blinked. "Is he…he's not _serious_?"

"It's a _blast_ , Foster!" Tony said, ambling rather fluidly over, his limbs like noodles. "He caught me with one of his knives last week and I bled like a stuck pig!"

Shockingly, Natasha appeared next. "Don't let them fool you, Foster. The real fun is _Threesome Weekend_." And she smirked in that 'Natasha' way.

Steve stuck his head around the door, frowning in mock confusion. "Wait, when it's more than three people, isn't it an _orgy_?"

"Guys…" But Darcy couldn't keep from laughing.

And then, to top it off, Clint came over, wobbling severely. "Yeah, so we're real, real busy, sorry—bye!" And he slammed the door in the astrophysicist's face.

Natasha silently went back to the couch and Steve followed, chuckling.

Tony and Clint—looking decidedly less drunk than they had a moment ago—slapped High-Fives and laughed loudly. "I wasn't expecting Captain Tightpants to get in on it!" Clint said.

" _Hey_!" Steve called.

Darcy twisted in Bucky's arms. "Did you get them in on that?"

Looking impressed, he shook his head. "Actually, no…They…just piled on. I guess."

"No one insults my girl but me, _thank-you-very-much_!" Tony declared, throwing himself back onto the couch.

She narrowed her eyes and crossed the room to lean over the back of the gigantic piece of furniture. "You guys aren't even drunk, are you?"

"Oh, _totally_ drunk—"

" _Totally_ drunk—"

"But not _that_ wasted. Jesus, Short Stack, you think we're SHIELD agents who aren't capable of acting a part?"

His words weren't even slurred.

She tipped herself over the couch and curled up. "You are such a faker."

They did end up playing Clue, well into the night, when all the pizza was cold, then eaten and gone, and the alcohol was safely ensconced once more in the freezer, guarded closely by Steve.

Surprisingly, it was Bucky who trounced each and every one of them, with a tiny smirk that belied his satisfaction.

He and Darcy went to bed after Steve and Natasha, around three.

Clint and Tony passed out at opposite ends of the couch.

((()))

They woke around the same time, to filmy dawn light filtering in the windows through gauzy curtains that only Pepper could've furnished. They were likely one of the few things that Tony had let her get her hands on. The facility was every inch a Stark design.

And they were scheduled to meet with him and Bruce in less than an hour. Darcy stared at the clock for a long moment, hard, treading the icy waters of fear and dread in her heart. "I don't wanna go," she murmured across the pillow.

Bucky sighed, running his metal hand up her back. "I know." He ran his hand back down, curled his fingers around her backside, then her thigh, and hitched her knee over his hip. "I'll be with you. You won't be alone."

Her gaze was fleeting and unsteady as she pressed against him. "You do know this isn't going to be _good_ news, whatever it is?"

He reached up to brush her hair back from her face. "I'd be naïve if I didn't suspect."

She started chewing on her lip. "I don't wanna know."

"It doesn't matter," he whispered.

She stared at him, the fear clawing its way up her throat. "What do you mean, _'it doesn't matter'_?! Of _course_ it matters, Jamie!"

But he pulled her closer, smoothing his hand down her back again. "Sshhh. Don't panic. Of _course_ it matters, Darcy. But it doesn't matter _to me_ , it doesn't change anything, baby."

She nodded, swallowing thickly and looking away. "I know. I think."

He smirked, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes. "Well, you can be sure. You're stuck with me, dollface. You signed your life away on that marriage certificate."

She had to smile at the joke, but she could tell it looked wan and weary. "Mmhmm…"

He reached up to cup her face in a tender gesture that only made her fear sharpen. "I'm not going anywhere. Okay? Don't forget."

She felt her chin wobble, but nodded, latching onto his strength with everything she had and clasping it tightly. She pressed her face to his cool, vibranium shoulder, and when she spoke, voicing a question she figured she already knew the answer to, her voice sounded tinny. "If I try and remember that, will you help me forget everything else for a little while?"

Much to her surprise, he had no argument for her.

And she did forget. For a little while.

Not long enough.

"Darcy, why don't you have a seat?" Bruce said not much later as she hovered in the doorway to his lab. This one was much larger than the one he worked out of in New York, though much less elaborately set up. Much like Tony's shop adjoining, it was all glass and chrome, medical instruments and long tables stretching the length of the bright room. At one end—their end—there was a small office with Bruce's desk, numerous chairs, and up close equipment, including luminary displays for CT Scans, regular X-Rays, and MRI results.

Her heart pounding, she sat gingerly down.

"Is it necessary for Barnes to be here?" a voice called down the long space.

Maria Hill stood at the far end, studying something on one of Stark's patented holographic displays, a blue chart hovering in the air.

"Oh, Hill's still here," Tony snarked. "What a treat." He raised his voice. "Pretty sure I told you we had a meeting."

Maria rolled her eyes.

Darcy stood, her small, compact body coiled tight—

And Bucky pushed her back down again by the shoulders. "Leave it," he said, his voice low.

But, surprisingly, it was Bruce who took up the reins. "If Darcy would like him here, he has every right. Also, funny you should bring it up, but _your_ presence is actually barred." He shrugged, not looking particularly guilty at all. "HIPAA, I'm afraid."

"Get out," Darcy said, her voice flat and cold.

The agent didn't have a rebuttal. She just rolled her eyes again, and stalked out, files rustling as the holographic display winked out.

Bruce continued as though nothing much had happened, smiling, even while Tony stood stiffly, glaring at Hill's retreating form down the hallway, perfectly visible through the glass windows. "You okay today, Darcy? Sleep well?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

He nodded. "Okay. Well. I'm afraid there really isn't much to say, with the exception of a few things." He glanced at Tony.

Tony scowled, but didn't comment.

"You are showing evidence of both the Extremis and the HYDRA Super Soldier formula in your blood. They've both managed to fuse to your DNA, as it were." He hit a button on his keyboard and a slide displayed on the projector dropped from the ceiling. "Here's a slide of one of your samples. You can see what I mean."

Bucky didn't remove his hands from her shoulders, and the heat of his touch steadied her rapid heartbeat. "So…?"

Bruce shrugged. "So, there's really no way to tell how this might affect her, other than the obvious. She clearly has had a strange reaction to the substances being forced into her system, so though it may not seem clear now, it wouldn't surprise me if she exhibited enhanced strength and reflexes in moments of high adrenaline."

"She's done that already," Bucky said, but didn't offer any details on the strange, Matrix-like sensations she'd described to him.

"Okay." Bruce nodded and picked up a clipboard, jotting notes down. "I'll make this as short and sweet as possible for now, but maybe we can elaborate on that later?"

Darcy nodded. "What about my hands? And the Extremis—I'm not going to—"

"It looks like its stabilized," Tony cut in. "However he's altered his original formula, however it's been tempered by Zola's serum, it doesn't look like your adrenaline can cause it to overload." He gave her a wan smile. "So no blowing up. Yay."

She nodded again, silent.

Bucky squeezed her right shoulder. "What about her mysterious healing ability from last spring?"

Bruce hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't see anything in her blood that gives evidence of anymore higher levels of white blood cells. Either it's faded to nothing, or…it's a scientific phenomenon I'll have to study through you, Darce. If it comes up again, then…I really don't know. Your T-cells are leveled out. It's very strange." He flipped to another slide, showing a very empty looking view of her blood sample. "See?"

"Freaky," Tony muttered.

"So why was I getting those episodes, then?" she asked, frowning in confusion at the slide. "If my white blood cells were so high…?"

"You were having a transfusion reaction, Darcy. Essentially an allergic reaction to Bucky's blood."

Bucky's hands tightened on her shoulders. " _My_ blood?"

Bruce nodded. "Mm. The sample Darcy was stuck with was derived from Zola's original formula—which he modeled using antigens from your blood, James. You have opposing blood types."

Tony watched the color drain from Bucky's face.

"That sounds…serious," Darcy murmured.

Bruce nodded. "It was. And I'm sorry. The only reason I missed it was because HYDRA's intake notes on you had the wrong type in your file. I caught it by accident, really."

"So how was I alive?" Darcy spoke up.

"The serum," Tony said. "The thing that was trying to eat away at you was also keeping your body from rejecting it entirely. It kept trying to alter your system, but your system would only let it get so far before rejecting the graft. The way it all shook down is likely responsible for you displaying latent-type traits of the serum, rather than Steve and Bucky's dominant types. Like Natasha. Her dose was watered down so much, it's not immediately recognizable."

"So Darcy was in limbo, as it were?" Bucky asked.

Bruce nodded. "Essentially."

"But…now…?"

A shrug. "I really don't know. I'm sorry, but really, in all honesty, I never graduated from medical school, you guys. Obviously, I was…a little sidetracked." He gave them a sheepish look. "This may just be a wait-and-see sort of operation. She may exhibit other abilities down the line. It is clear, however, that she's adapted in a fashion similar to you, and to Steve and Natasha. Enhanced strength and reflexes, immunity to most diseases, as well as a longer-than-average lifespan, thanks to the regenerative properties of the serum itself."

Darcy blinked, then turned to look over her shoulder at Bucky. "You never mentioned…"

Bucky winced.

She snapped around to look at Bruce. "So I'll…be immortal, or something?"

He shook his head. "No, no, I'd rule that out. Steve has shown signs of aging, just very, very slow signs. Natasha as well. James, I have yet to really put together a comprehensive study on you yet—"

"Well, it's not exactly like we've had time…" he cut in, mumbling.

"—But just think about it as aging slowly, Darcy. You might live twice as long as the average person. Maybe. There's no way to know, there's no precedence for any of this." Bruce shrugged again. "You two understand, of course, that this is all still new science to us average people. Unfortunately, we don't have Erskine or Zola here to question."

Darcy snarled low. "Shame. I'd like to question Zola for a little while…"

Tony smirked.

"Ssshhh…" Bucky hushed her. "He's dead."

"Did he linger?"

"Yes," Tony provided.

" _Good_."

Bucky gave her a wry look. "So everything's okay…? It's just a waiting game?"

At this, the bubble of relief that was growing steadily in Darcy's chest, popped, as Tony and Bruce gave each other a long look. "What?"

Tony sighed, pulling a hand tiredly down his face.

Bruce hesitated.

"Just _say_ it," Darcy sighed, leaning back in the chair.

Bucky squeezed her shoulders, bracing himself, mentally, for what he suspected was the information that had brought them here, rather than home to Manhattan, the information Natasha had deliberately kept from him on the drive back.

Bruce sighed. "You've been implanted with a tracker," he finally said.

"Not possible," Bucky balked. "I checked her over— _thoroughly_. And even _if_ she healed over something that fast, you'd have picked up on something during—"

"I _did_ pick up on something," Bruce interrupted. "Just not…what I was expecting."

Darcy blinked. " _And_ …"

Tony took over. "The smallest microchips out there right now are as small as IBM's experimental seven nanometer sample. It's all still in early engineering stages. But, even that seven nanometer chip is smaller than the average width of a strand of human hair. Now, I won't bore you with the math, but there are so many nanometers in a micrometer, and the average red blood cell is approximately eight micrometers in size. And they can be programmed with remarkable accuracy."

Bruce was nodding.

Bucky was silent; he could already feel what was coming.

But Darcy wasn't quite there yet. " _So_ …?!"

"That's how they managed to track us all across the fucking country," he filled in, frustration oxidizing into anger. "I _knew_ I was clean."

Tony nodded. "You could be clean as a whistle, and it wouldn't matter. Even for _you_."

Darcy huffed, fear edging out the irritation in her voice, thinning it. "Would someone please elaborate for me?!"

Tony hiked himself up on the counter and sat facing her. "A chip that small could be injected into the blood, Darce. It's how Killian kept managing to catch up to you. Even if it would hang up somewhere, with the serum in your blood, there's no possibility of a clot or any other physical complication. Your body would adapt to it."

She pulled a hand through her hair. "Okay. So we got into a few scrapes along the way—"

"No, no, you're _hearing_ me, but you're not focused enough to interpret what I'm saying to you, Short Stack," he interrupted her, shaking his head, his voice trembling. "If he was able to track you, that means you're giving off a signal. You're pinging."

She huffed again. "Yes, I know how trackers work, Tony—"

"And if he can ping you, he can possibly manipulate the information on that tracker—from a _distance_."

She blinked.

Bucky let his eyes slide shut. " _Fuck_."

Jerking, she turned to look up at him sharply. " _What_? What merits a 'fuck' from the _Winter Soldier_?!"

Bruce sat down at his desk. "Tony?"

Stark sucked in a long, deep breath. "In the AIM facility, I found information. In fact, it was the only information there that wasn't encrypted. Obviously, I can sort out all the stuff that JARVIS got anyway, in time, but it was like Killian _left_ this for me to find. Two designs: one for a small bomb capable of a Semtex level blast with a _fraction_ of the materials. And one for a tiny, tiny chip capable of receiving various signals, signals no known microchip should be capable of receiving." He swallowed, and finally looked her square in the face. "Darcy, he could be clean across the country, hit a key on a keyboard, and use your chip to detonate that bomb."

For a long moment, they all stared at each other.

Finally, Darcy blinked. "…Semtex."

Tony nodded. "Enough Semtex, and you could level Avengers Tower, Darcy." His voice was low and defeated.

She slumped back against the seat, boneless. "Semtex," she repeated.

Bucky finally pulled up a rolling chair and sat heavily down in it.

"I'm a walking detonator," she said into the silence.

Bucky was a step ahead. "Have they found anything?" he asked, looking up at Tony with a grim scowl.

Stark shook his head. "Nothing. They're still looking. This is their second pass through every floor, but they haven't found a thing so far. There's _gotta_ be something there. I mean, Killian left me a note that _specifically_ mentioned Manhattan. There _has_ to be something there."

"What if it was just a ruse, a distraction so he could make a gamble for her—or a feint so you'd know he was capable of lording the technology over your head?" he posited.

Tony shrugged. "He always was a petty bastard. You could be right. There may be nothing there and he wants to make sure that I know he could change that at any time. It wouldn't surprise me."

"How did you even know that this thing was inside me?!" Darcy finally spoke up.

Silently, Tony hopped down off the lab table, crossed the room, picked up a toy that looked like a pricing gun from a local grocery store, came back to them, and held it up to Darcy's body. It emitted a shrill, short beep that made her jump.

Then he pointed it at Bucky, and it emitted a low boop, what sounded like a negative result in comparison.

Darcy sighed.

He returned it to its dock and rejoined them.

Staring down into her lap, Darcy said, her voice small, "…Can't you just find it and remove it?"

Tony reached out to set a hand on her shoulder. "Darcy, that thing was designed to move through your blood and embed itself. It's in deep. We've narrowed down where it's implanted itself, but…"

She looked up at him beseechingly, her eyes wide and fearful, and the amount of 'scared little girl' he saw there tore Tony's heart to little shreds. "Where is it?"

"Your lower, left ventricle."

She flinched, but pushed on, her voice rising, a hysterical edge weaving a thread. "But can't you just…just—I _dunno_!— _turn it off_?! Keep it from sending out a signal?!"

They all heard the edge of panic seeping into her voice.

Tony sighed. "Darce, you know my ego hates to admit it, but I know nothing about this technology. I've got no clue what he's been doing these past few years. AIM is— _literally_ —a group of geniuses getting together with world domination on their minds. Frankly, just _thinking_ about what they might be developing while we fight off alien attacks gives me nightmares."

There was another long moment of silence.

Darcy rubbed at the back of her neck and swallowed thickly. When she looked up at them all, her eyes were glassy, but she blinked rapidly, willing them away. "So…what? I'm supposed to just walk around for the rest of my life, waiting for something to blow up just because I'm standing there?"

Tony and Bruce shared another look.

"We're…working on it," Bruce finally said, looking less than confident and just this side of overly sympathetic. "I'm…I'm sorry that that's all I can give you. But…we're working on it."

"Let you know if I come up with anything, okay, Darce?" Tony added. "You'll be the first. Why don't you go upstairs and…lie down, rest a little, hm?" He glanced at Bucky and they shared a knowing look. "You look tired, you're probably still dragging a little after your adventure."

She stood, nodding silently.

"Call me if they find anything in Manhattan, okay?" Bucky asked, his voice pitched low.

Tony nodded.

They got halfway down the hall before she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Darce?" he prompted.

"I can't," she finally said, glancing around, her gaze finally landing on a set of glass doors—one of only a few in the secure facility—that led outside. "I…I just…I can't, right now."

He set a hand at the small of her back. "Can't what, solnishka?"

She turned to look at him. "I've gotta…I've gotta get out of here for a while."

He gestured. "Well, we can take a walk—"

"Alone."

He snapped his mouth shut.

She looked up at him, eyes wide with sadness and guilt. "I'm sorry, I just…I have to…I have to process this." Her expression turned to anxiousness. "Please don't be angry?"

His own frustration and anxiety gave way to something like regret. He reached up to fold her hair behind an ear. "Darcy…" He sighed. "Sweetheart, I haven't been angry at you for a moment since we met, baby…"

She winced.

"I'll be around. Okay?"

She got up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "You're seriously the best. _The best_. I'm not kidding. I couldn't have made up a better partner if I'd _actually_ tried."

He smiled, ducking.

"I love you," she murmured.

"I know." And he stood there, watching, as she swept out the door, down the steps, and along the path that ran the perimeter of the facility, her hair snapping in the breeze.


	20. Chapter 20: Safe and Sound

**Chapter 20** **: Safe and Sound**

 **Summary:** **Please. Don't kill me.**

 **Notes:** **Whew. So why is it, that when I say I'll have time to post another chapter, a thousand things seem to come up and then I can't? I'm really sorry, guys, for the delay. But here we are, I'm posting a new one and all I can say is: please, please don't kill me. You guys know I won't leave you in despair, so have faith that I'm not out to ruin your day with this chapter, but I'm warning you ahead of time, and PLEASE DON'T KILL ME. You know, the night is darkest and all that...** **Chapter title taken from the song by Taylor Swift and The Civil Wars, property of Big Machine Records. Some other references here that I in no way claim to own, including Star Trek and Marvel, as well as a song by The Hives that I won't mention or it'll totally give the game away.** **Anyway. I'll just...leave this here.**

It was a quiet night. Darcy had a hard time wrapping her head around a tracker small enough to pass through the blood stream, but since her life was a comic book, she tried to shove it to the back of her mind. She was distantly aware that she was in some form of shock, but wasn't sure what to do with it. She was pretty sure it wasn't grief—not yet. Although, really, in all fairness, what was there to grieve about? Her circumstances hadn't much changed.

She was somewhere on the edge of super-soldier status, but neither was she quite here nor there.

She was still married to a wonderful man, issues or no.

She was still incapable of having his children, not that it mattered much.

She had what perhaps amounted to a new skill set regarding her dose of Extremis.

Nothing much had changed.

 _Except_ for the fact that she was physically capable of _leveling a building_ —and all the souls unfortunate enough to be in or around it—simply by standing in a room. And it wasn't even something she could control.

She felt vaguely like a drone, controlled by someone else, sitting at a computer and swearing at their joystick, while she jumped but missed the stars for extra points.

So it was a vacant sort of night; the sort of night where she sat and tried to think as little as she could.

She drifted in a couple hours later, just as the afternoon was heating up, expecting to find Bucky curled on the couch with a book; but he was pacing, slowly, in front of the windows, and his hair was lank from all the running of his hands through it he'd been doing. A nervous tic she'd recognized fairly early in their relationship.

The apartment was otherwise empty.

Steve and Natasha had gone on a drive out to get away from everyone's crazy shenanigans—Clint and Sam had started a ridiculous prank war the afternoon before, descending on lunch with water guns and spraying everyone in the attempt to decimate each other—so they had the place to themselves.

He jumped slightly as she shut the door behind her.

"You hungry?" Bucky asked quietly into the silence as they stood, looking at each other.

She shook her head. "No."

A pause, and she was just focused enough to hear the worry in his voice. "You sure?" he pressed. "There's pasta up in the cabinet."

But she shook her head. Not even his cooking could tempt her now.

He didn't eat either, she noticed. He did make her tea, though, and she drank it quietly in a chair by the windows, her book in her lap. She was grateful for the space he gave her most of the time, but now she wasn't sure whether or not she wanted him close, and she didn't know how to ask him to figure it out for her. He hovered in that way he had, not making it obvious that he was doing any hovering, puttering around, cleaning and tidying like a _fucking_ _impressive_ husband, before tucking into one side of the couch with _Legends of Shannara_. She quirked an eyebrow at his broad reading taste but didn't comment. His presence was comforting, if nothing else.

She eventually realized she wasn't going to be able to focus on her book and got lost staring out the window, bored and unsettled at the same time. She watched the sun trace the late afternoon, then the evening, then dip below the tree line in a pretty display of refracted light, the sky burning pink, before cooling to a peaceful purple, then a dark, bruising night blue as it disappeared at the horizon, off to brighten someone else's doorstep.

She jumped when he settled his hands very gently on her shoulders and leaned over her. "Why don't you come to bed, hm?" he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to the space just behind her ear.

She swallowed, coming to as though out of a fog, and looked around. The room was dark, but for a small lamp he must've left lit along the book case. Blinking, she twisted to find him in pajama bottoms, loose and sexy, no shirt, his hair swept back from his face in a small knot, and damp. When did he get up and take a shower? "I…" she started, lamely, before petering out.

He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "You've been out here a while. Come to bed, hm?"

She cleared her throat. "How long were you…?"

A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "Waiting for you in there? About an hour. I missed you—the shower was lonely without you. It's late."

She glanced at the clock. After eleven. "Oh, _shit_ …" She rubbed at her eyes, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was all at once. "I know reading makes you sleepy, you should've just gone to bed without me…"

That same soft look. "Didn't want to." He came around the front of the chair and scooped her up before she could get her wits totally about her. "Come on. Upsy-daisy."

"Jamie—"

"You've been staring out the window for hours, practically catatonic. You're scaring me a little. I'm done giving you your space." He smirked and she saw his eyes crinkle in the dim dark. "Also, the bed was too cold without you."

She yawned and set her head against his shoulder. "Glad to know I'm not the only one with attachment issues."

A full-blown Bucky Barnes smile, mega-watt in the dark. "Oh, I've got a list of issues as long as your arm, babe, if you want 'em."

She was already drifting a little in the gentle movement of his gait. Part of her sleepy brain pondered that he could walk so softly and still maintain that strut of his. "Isn't that what 'I do' means?"

He laughed softly as they moved into the bedroom. "Never thought of it quite that way before, but I suppose you're right."

She hummed as he set her amidst the soft, jersey sheets. "Mm. Thanks. You've got great legs. Anyone ever tell you that?"

His husky chuckle drifted out of the darkness of her lazy eyelids, cleared by the small lamp lit on his side of the bed. She vaguely noted that even away from home, they'd ended up on their respective sides—oh hell, they had sides at all. "You know, funnily enough, you're the first."

She sighed contentedly and was just aware enough to think of sitting up and tugging off her clothes, starting with her shirt. "Mm—hmm. They're nice, your thighs in particular. That CCTV footage of you and Steve-O in that overpass fight is seriously flattering to your figure. You've got the whole 'murder strut' thing down to an art form, babe. Climbing off of cars and all that…" Her elbow caught on the collar of her t-shirt and she tugged, scowling.

The bed dipped as he joined her and reached over to untangle her arms. He pulled it off with a wry smirk. "'Murder strut'? So I'm given to assume you think footage of me going on a rampage with automatic weaponry is somehow sexually attractive?" Even in her sleepy haze, she could hear the incredulity in his voice—maybe a touch of disgust.

"I dunno what that says about me, but yeah."

He sighed and stood, the bed straightening as he slid his hands beneath the covers to take the waistband of her leggings. "Darcy…" He started pulling them off, his left hand nice and warm on her thigh.

"I dunno, maybe the determined capability you displayed—even with no memory or emotion—speaks to my instinctive, evolutionary drive to find a mate with the ability to provide and protect—hey, don't be getting hands-y, Barnes, watch where you're grabbing…" she mumbled as she unhooked her bra behind her back.

He snorted. "'Evolutionary drive', huh? I don't think you're quite as sleepy as you seem, Lewis."

She sighed. " _Hmph_. Don't call me that. I'm getting rid of that as soon as we're back in the jurisdiction of the Manhattan City Clerk's office."

He pulled off her leggings and folded them, set them aside, and went around the bed.

She flopped back. "Dunno why it took me so long to realize the unexpected advantage of marrying you—I get to change my name. Woohoo."

He shook his head, smirking as he went through the top drawer of the dresser. "Ah, and the truth comes out—you didn't marry me for my mind." He withdrew a t-shirt.

"Is that one of yours?" she asked, watching him.

"One of yours."

She shook her head. "Want one of yours." She held out her hand. "Pretty please."

Chuckling, he switched drawers and pulled out a gray v-neck. "Why?"

She sighed. "Smells like you."

He shut the drawer and came back. "Oh?"

She nodded and took the t-shirt. "Mm. You smell good."

He couldn't help but laugh as she tugged it over her head and got it backwards in her daze.

"Like clean boy."

"Here, ya train wreck." He turned the shirt around. "What, exactly, does 'clean boy' smell like?"

She shrugged. "Dunno, but it's nice. Soapy."

He snorted and pulled the shirt down over her torso. "Well, I'll stop buying Polo Black, then, shall I?"

 _Polo_? Where had he been hiding _that_? So _that_ was what it was… She settled back against the pillow with a heavy sigh, thinking that she owed Ralph Lauren a debt of gratitude. "Mm, sure."

He chuckled again and shook his head. "My little mess, Darcy Lewis."

" _Jane_ ," she added. "Darcy _Jane_ Lewis. Appropriate, I guess."

He went around the bed and slid under the covers, reaching over to click off the light and plunging them into full darkness. "Yes, Darcy Jane. I know."

"You're so patient with me," she murmured.

"No more than you are with me," he said.

She snuggled in and looked at him across the pillows. "You know, it's fitting, really."

"What is?"

She sighed again. "You're a mess. And I'm a mess. What are we gonna do? Be messes together?"

He looped his metal arm around her waist and tugged her closer. "That was my goal. I dunno about you." He pulled her up against him and sighed. "That's better."

"I guess we could be messes together—though I sorta figured you'd straighten me out a little."

He ran his hand up the middle of her back, then back down again, his metal palm warm on her butt. "I never said I was capable of straightening you out. Don't project your ideas on me, missy."

She gave a sleepy giggle against his collar bone. "Oops. Sorry."

They settled into content quiet.

He waited for her breathing to change, signaling to him that she'd finally fallen asleep.

Instead, she spoke into the darkness. "What are we gonna do?" And she sounded quite awake and aware, her voice timid, but direct for the first time in the conversation.

He swallowed, finally facing what they'd been dancing around. Was it that he'd turned off the light? Things like this weren't as scary when you couldn't see them plainly, all their sharp edges and hard angles. "I don't know, dollface."

"I mean, I'll admit, I was pretty fucked up when I came into this relationship. Look how long it took me to let you take the reins on some things. I had no idea I was such a control freak."

"You were fine," he reassured her.

But she kept going. "And they broke me anyway. And now I've…I've got _extra pieces_ , Jamie."

He sighed, letting his head drop back on the pillow and hoping the strain of panic in her voice smoothed itself out. "Yeah, they clutter things up."

"What if Killian just spends the rest of his life skipping around and sticking bombs in places and waiting for me to show up so he can hit a button from three hundred miles away and watch us blow up, like the fucking coyote from Looney Tunes?! I mean, I'm a _detonator_ , Jamie."

He took a deep breath. "Banner and Stark will figure it out, sweetheart."

She nuzzled his shoulder, hiding. "And you always call me 'sweetheart', 'cause you're so old-fashioned."

He snorted. "I'm not old-fashioned, I'm just _old_ , Darcy."

"I'm tired of being scared. I was scared of Thor and I was scared of Loki's monsters, and the Dark Elves. And I was scared of you, and then Luk—"

"Me?" he cut in. "You were scared of me?" He spoke carefully, and quietly, but all that did was tell her how much hurt the idea caused him.

She flinched. " _No_ , _no_. That's not what I meant."

"I'm pretty sure that's what you just said, that you were scared of me."

She growled softly in frustration and nudged his sternum with her forehead. " _No_ , _no_. Not _of_ you, but…" She chewed on her lip for a moment.

A strange, but concentrated pain was pinging in his chest and he didn't know what to do with it, the twisting of his throat, throbbing, the idea that she was afraid of him at any point, _ever_ , when she'd always insisted—

"Scared of how I _felt_ about you," she whispered then, her voice soft and vulnerable. "You _terrified_ me, Jamie."

He was knocked silent by this confession.

She hesitated.

"Because of who I was— _what_ I was."

"No, because of who you _weren't_ ," she murmured. " _What_ you weren't. You weren't a killer, you were just a prisoner of war. And it…it scared me that I could feel that way about someone so…fragile."

Not the word he'd have chosen to apply to his alter ego. He'd gotten her into a sharing mood—somewhere, deep down, those were his favorites.

"You were _so fragile_ , Jamie. And I didn't want to project onto you, and I didn't want to manipulate you or influence you, and I didn't want to make you feel pressured, or like you owed me anything, and…and it _terrified_ me that in doing so, you'd someday…be _okay_. And not need me. And I'd already opened myself up to you and that you'd leave me with this _you_ -shaped wound in my chest, even though Tony says I didn't let you in, that you stole your way in and that I let you stay, and—"

"You're babbling, Darcy," he gently cut in. "Just calm down."

She stared into his eyes for a long moment in the dark, her gaze wide and raw. "I dunno if Tony's right, but I felt exposed. I'd gone into it to try and make you okay again, but I hadn't really considered what that would mean for me. And now here we are."

He braced himself. "You regret it?" It came out much softer and weaker than he intended.

She shook her head with a tiny smile. "How can you ask that? No. I wouldn't trade you for anything. You're mine."

He reached up to run his fingers through her hair, his heart aching.

And then they were tangled together, mouths searching, hands seeking, until they were folded together in a blind rush. She hitched her calves around his hips, imploring him.

"Wait," he murmured, his face pressed to her throat. "If we do this, we'll never finish this conversation." He eased back from her.

She moaned a complaint. " _Jamie_ …"

"You know I'm right. Fear shouldn't lead to…sex." Even with them. He separated them, gently, extricating himself from the circle of her soft, tempting body.

She swallowed, so loudly he heard it. "I'm just tired of being _afraid_."

He frowned, his heart throbbing as he settled beside her on one elbow. God, he hadn't been prepared for the odd juxtaposition of being head over heels for someone—the boundless joy mired in the awful protective melancholy. "But you're not afraid of… _this_ …anymore. Are you?"

She sighed. "No, but... I dunno. I'm just _tired_. I'm so _tired_." She let her eyes slide shut.

He flinched. "You sound like me."

She looked up at him again.

"I don't like that you sound like me. You should _never_ sound like me."

She ran her hand up his metal arm, her skin sliding with a soft sound across the intricate metal plates as she smiled. "You're rubbing off on me, Barnes."

It had been a long time since his heart had skipped, but it did then, her half-joking phrase ricocheting around until his horror had eclipsed it.

She fell asleep not long after, her face deceptively peaceful all tucked in beside him, her hand still on his metal forearm.

Very gently, he eased out of bed. For a long time, he sat at the foot, watching her sleep. Finally, he retrieved a t-shirt from the drawer and set out, easing the door shut behind him. He paced the halls for a long time, wandering directionless, his mind turning over everything and nothing at once, so tangled were his thoughts.

He eventually found himself at Tony's shop and wondered if he'd subconsciously come here on his own. For some reason, he found solace in Tony's tinkering, his irreverent humor, so out-of-place in a family like theirs, so _deceptively_ careless. If there was one thing about Tony he'd learned that he often wondered if other people saw, it was that Tony Stark's fault wasn't in being careless—it was in caring _too much_.

It was empty and dark within.

Suddenly exhausted, he went in without turning the light on and sat down in one of Stark's shop chairs, a bucket seat of soft, supple black leather, and sighed, leaning his head back against the top of the chair. "God damn it," he murmured as he sat in the dark.

He wasn't sure how long he was there. Long enough to drift half asleep. He was woken when the light blasted on around him in the room.

Tony shuffled in, then jumped about a foot. " _Jesus Christ_ , Barnes!" he gasped, jerking back.

Bucky blinked, his eyes adjusting. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"Sitting in here in the goddamn dark," he muttered, shaking his head as he straightened his pajama pants. They brushed the floor at his bare feet as he ambled in, rubbing at his eyes. "You couldn't sleep either?"

Bucky shrugged.

The inventor skirted around him and booted up his computer.

 _Up early are we, Sir?_ JARVIS offered.

Tony ignored the quip. "Short Stack alright?"

He shrugged again. "I guess."

His brow furrowed. "You _guess_? That doesn't sound like you."

He pulled his fingers through his hair. "She's asleep."

Tony shrugged. "Well, there's that, anyway." He eyed him over his monitor. "And why aren't you doing the same? I mean, don't get me wrong, I know you're just as much of an insomniac as I am, but, all the same, you look dead on your feet."

He moved to shrug again, but for some reason, he found words coming out of his mouth, all on their own. "Something she said…"

Tony sat down heavily in the chair at his computer and took up the wireless ergonomic mouse. "And what was that?"

He sighed. "That she's tired of being scared. And tired of being tired."

An eyebrow went up. "And that's…a disturbing thing for her to say?"

Bucky gave him a look. "No, but joking that I'm rubbing off on her disturbs me a little."

The other eyebrow joined the first and for a moment, Tony Stark was silent. "Ah. Yeah. I gotcha."

Bitterness crept out from where he usually was so good at keeping it stashed. "Yeah, well, that makes one of you, then."

But Tony's reply wasn't quite what he was expecting. "Yeah, sometimes I'm not entirely sure just how aware you are of that."

"You mean the way everyone flinches when I walk by like I'm about to create an international incident?" he snapped. "Don't worry, Tony. They hardwired me to notice _everything_. I'm _very_ aware. _One_ international incident is more than enough for me."

Tony was silent for a long moment.

"Sorry," Bucky murmured, slumping further into the chair.

"No, no, kid. Get it all out."

"Never mind that I walk around like that _all the time_ , in my own head. Never mind that I usually feel like a ticking time bomb, like I'm two steps away from a trigger that'll remove the barrier between him and me. Sometimes I'm not even sure where I end and he begins. But we all should just get outta Barnes way in case he decides to go on a _killing spree_." He huffed, aware that he was rambling, but unable to really stop the torrent. "I _told_ her. I _told_ her to just walk the other way, Stark. But she's so _fucking_ stubborn. And now look."

Tony nodded, letting him vent. James Barnes, it was becoming clear, was a typical bottler. Kept things locked down so tight they suffocated him. Tony could relate—after all, he was the best of them.

"They can look at me like I'm unstable, they can run the other direction, I don't care. They want to treat me like a pariah, like I'm a _fucking_ leper, like it's only a matter of time until I kill you all, I don't. _Care_. But I care when they start looking at _her_ the same way, like she's insane just for sitting next to me, like she's some—"

"I think the word you're looking for is 'whore'."

He huffed again, letting his head tip. "I _told_ her I wasn't good for her. I guess I should've been crueler. Maybe it would've pushed her away, and we wouldn't be in this mess, and she wouldn't be talking about how I've _rubbed off on her_."

Tony blinked. "She _really_ said that?"

Bucky took a deep, deep breath, trying to smooth everything inside him out, but it little good. "She was joking. She was trying to make light, trying to make me feel better. But it made it worse—which is really saying something."

Tony nodded.

"She's been looking like me lately. That's killing me a little, Stark."

"What do you—"

"I'm _aware_ of my own reflection, Tony," he cut in. "I know I look like a goddamn _ghost_ , alright? But _she's_ not supposed to look like that. _She's_ not supposed to look gaunt and hollow, and haunted. She's not _supposed_ to be so used to being scared that it ceases to matter aside from the pesky side effect of the exhaustion it brings on. She's not supposed to have my dirty fingerprints all over her!"

Tony, a little cowed by the heavy onslaught—and a bit surprised to realize the feeling—just sat looking at him, unsure what to say, or if he was supposed to say anything at all.

He snorted, humorlessly, and shook his head. "She'd fucking kill me if she could hear me right now."

Tony hemmed, then hawed, then nodded.

"How naïve have you gotta be to convince yourself you're out of the woods?"

Tony winced, something in his chest pinching. "Buck—"

"I didn't think I was running, anymore, but now it looks like _all_ I've been doing the past two years is _sprinting_ clean in the other direction. I let everyone be terrified of me, thought they'd get it out of their systems, but…"

Swallowing, Tony leaned forward. "But…?"

"They were right." He chuckled, and shook his head, like it was the world's funniest joke. "I couldn't see past her." Gotcha.

Tony finally managed to come unstuck as he clicked around, checking the security cams. "Buck, you just said it yourself—you tried to tell her, and even though I _disagree_ with that—"

"With what?"

He sighed. "You're outta the woods, kid. That's the nature of this line of work. The branches keep pulling you back in. That's _not your fault_ , Buck." He did a double-take as he checked the camera for the hallway just outside and saw Jane Foster paused just at the doorway. She stood frozen, listening raptly.

"I know," Bucky murmured, unblinking as he stared across the room. "I _know_. I didn't jump out of that train. And I didn't ask to have my arm _sawed off_. And I didn't _ask_ to be brainwashed, or manipulated, I didn't _decide_ to put my gun to all those heads. I _know_. I _know_ that, Stark." He turned his head and looked at him, then, square in the face.

Tony jerked in surprise as their eyes met and he saw the wet glaze in Bucky's.

"I know that. But I don't _feel_ it. I don't feel that when I look at you, every day, and see your father's face. You look _just_ like him. It's _eerie_. I don't feel it when you speak and all I can hear are your mother's cries for mercy. You know how that _feels_?"

Tony nodded.

" _Do_ you? You know how it feels to not know your own mind? To be shoved to the side and into a tiny cell while they stuff someone else in? You know what it feels like to be a prisoner in your own head? You know what it feels like when no one hears you _screaming_?"

Tony couldn't look away, his eyes locked onto the Winter Soldier's; they were, after all, the Winter Soldier's eyes, or what they would've looked like, then, if someone had bothered to notice. Motion on the screen was the only thing that pulled his gaze down, and he watched as Jane sat down heavily on the floor of the hallway, her face slack in shock and something akin to grief.

"I suppose you _do_ know what dawning horror feels like, though, don't you? Realizing your best friend has been selling weapons of mass destruction to the enemy the whole time, fueling terrorism for years, while you happily went about your life."

It was an old pain, now, and Tony didn't wince. He just gave him a steady look, and nodded. "It's _nothing_ like what you went through."

"Sometimes I wake up and I get it reversed. Like I'm still dreaming. Like she's not real, she's just an elaborate figment that they can snatch away." He finally looked down into his lap, at his worrying hands, and a tear dropping silently down onto his wrist. "They did that, you know. Once in a while, they'd feed me a dream to keep me submissive when they wrenched it away—they had all the power."

He sounded hollow. "I should've tried harder to push her away. I was selfish."

In the hallway, Jane pressed her hand to her mouth in a silent gasp. Tony shook his head. "You were _human_ , Buck."

"Now she's hopelessly tangled in this, in _me_. There's _nowhere to go_ , Tony. _I_ know that better than _anyone_. There _is no way out_ —only a way _further_ _in_. It'll _suck_ the life out of her, Tony."

" _Darcy's tough_. You _know_ that, she's _strong_. She's got you."

Bucky chuckled, just once, and the laughter didn't reach his face. "If _I_ can't keep her safe, who can?"

Tony took a breath. "You went in _blind_ , Bucky. That _wasn't your fault_. They would've gotten to her anyway, and you _know_ that."

He nodded. "She's a big girl. She made up her own mind. That doesn't make it any easier to watch her disintegrate."

Jane let her head tip back against the wall, listening.

"She's not—"

"Can't you _see_ it, Stark?" he interrupted. "She's losing pieces of herself, a little at a time." His voice broke. "I thought I was at least a few decades on the other side of being that naïve, that's all." He shook his head. "She looks at me and she just sees this _hero_ , and I'm…I'm not." He shook his head. "I'm the _farthest_ thing from a hero, Tony. She trusts me so _blindly_ , she thinks…" He snorted. "She thinks she married James Barnes." He chuckled, and it was the most empty, awful sound Tony thought he'd heard in a long time, teetering somewhere entirely too close to a sob. "She thinks she married _James Barnes_ just because that's the name the government decided to let me keep."

Tony looked at him, long and hard. "So who'd she marry, then?"

Bucky's voice hardened into a sharp, whispered edge, raw and ragged. " _I don't know._ " Another tear slipped silently down his face. " _I don't know_ , Stark."

Tony wondered if he even realized he was weeping. "Bucky. This is just doubt. You're _exhausted_. You had some less-than-stellar news this morning, with Bruce's test results, but this is just self-doubt. _Nothing_ more. Go and sleep. Sleep it off. You'll be clearer-headed in the morning." He stood and crossed the room to him. "We'll figure this out. You know how we operate. We're a _team_. No man left behind. That hasn't changed, and that includes Darcy."

But it wasn't clear he'd been heard. "I wanna take her place."

Something pricked in Tony's heart and started to bleed. "I know, kid. So do I."

"She doesn't need this. She's had it bad enough. Her father's a _prick_. She lost Maria, she's practically lost Wanda, Jane thinks she's an _idiot_ —and for _what_?!"

Tony sighed, glancing down to find Jane flinching and covering her face with her hands. "At risk of sounding like a hopeless romantic, for _love_ , kid. For _you_. She made that choice and she's okay with it. She doesn't need support from them. She's got us." His voice hardened, and he took a chance, frustrated and heartbroken, and did something hindsight told him may have been slightly on the side of stupid. He shoved the Winter Soldier back into the seat, forcing him to look up at him. " _Go upstairs_ , kid. Pull yourself together. You're exhausted and this isn't you talking. You've been awake for hours, probably days, and you're _panicking_. I _know_ you, kid, I know you well enough to know you're more level-headed than this. So _go upstairs_. Lay down next to your girl. And _sleep_."

For a long moment, Bucky stared up at the inventor, unblinking. Finally, he swallowed, nodded, and stood, blinking rapidly as he attempted to draw his thoughts inward again. "Sorry."

Tony squeezed his shoulder and shook him a little. "No need. Go on." He gave him a little shove and shadowed him as he went on his way, steadier with each step, until he'd disappeared up the stairs. "Night, Buck." Heaving a heavy sigh, he shook his head and pulled a hand down his face. Then he went down the hall, to the next lab over, where Jane Foster was perched—suspiciously short of breath—behind her computer. Which was turned off.

Very casually, he approached, until he was right in front of her.

She watched him, eyes wide, every single step.

He leaned down in front of her, his expression darkening enough that he knew he might be in trouble with Thor later, but couldn't quite bring himself to correct. "Eyes open now, Foster?" he snarled.

She flinched.

" _One word_ of that. To _anyone_ — _including_ Darcy—and you better run and hide behind your Norse Ken doll. Got it?" He stalked back out.

"Tony—" she called after him.

He stopped in the doorway.

She chewed on her lip. "Is he…okay…?"

"You sure you care enough to find out, now?" Tony snorted, once, and shook his head. "Foster, he ain't been okay since about 1944. Any other stupid questions?"

((()))

They waited on pins and needles for days.

But nothing happened.

Darcy retreated into herself a little deeper.

Jane attempted to reach out again, one afternoon, while Bruce looked her over under some complicated scanning machine, but was soundly ignored.

Bucky continued sparring with the guys, his focus razor sharp, hard enough that the others gave each other worried looks and Steve finally mentioned it to Tony, who shrugged like it was nothing, only to subsequently watch the soldier even closer than before.

Scott Lang joked that it wasn't really sparring anymore around SHIELD, but an emotional outlet.

No one laughed.

Hank Pym showed up with his daughter at one point with a sensitive mission for the former tech engineer, studiously avoided Tony, and the three of them left late that night. Tony rolled his eyes but let the slight go. Clint went further upstate with Laura and the kids.

Darcy retreated a little further.

Natasha tried making conversation a few times, but even she could get nothing out of her.

On one exciting occasion, just outside the lab a few days later, Maria made the mistake of baiting her and was punched in the throat for her troubles.

No one offered assistance to Hill as she staggered off, clutching her windpipe.

Tony even went so far as to give his adoptive daughter a round of applause.

"See, I _told_ you we didn't need to work on that right hook," Bucky praised her.

She merely continued into the lab. "Anything?" she asked. "What is this—day seven?"

Bruce nodded from the corner. "It's been a week, yes."

"They haven't found anything," Stark added. He looked less than pleased. "And I can't keep contracting them to look around. They've got other rich idiots to order them around."

Darcy slumped in a chair. "So they're done? That's it?"

Tony shrugged. "That's it, kiddo."

She scowled. "So…now what? You guys head back while I hide here, or what?"

"Darce…" Bucky put in, but left out the obvious chastisement for flippant bitterness—they all heard it and he wasn't about to preach on something he knew well.

" _No_ _one's_ hiding," Tony put in, pushing off the counter. "We'll pack up tonight and start heading back. Think maybe we'll skip the Quinjets and just road trip it and—"

He stopped as a loud beeping started up.

Bruce jerked. "What's that?"

Tony frowned and went over to a computer terminal. "Proximity alert."

Darcy, who didn't seem alarmed in the slightest, sighed. "Shouldn't that be making more of a sproing-y, _Star Trek_ -y noise?"

Tony ignored her, hitting buttons onscreen before swiping right and the holo-display flashed in the middle of the room, over the worktable. The three men circled it. "Sure, we can work on that later, Lewis."

She huffed. "Would everyone _please_ stop calling me that? It's making my skin crawl."

Bruce straightened his glasses. "I don't see a bogey."

Tony's frown tightened. "JARVIS, expand view."

 _Of course, Sir_. The screen reacted, shifting to a wider, satellite view.

"What the _fuck_?" Tony muttered, squinting.

 _If I may, Sir, the threat does not appear self-actuated_ , the butler elaborated.

"The fuck does that mean?" Darcy snapped, sitting up jerkily.

But JARVIS was calm as ever. _It does not appear to be a threat external to the estate_ , he answered, and she vaguely noted that he left off naming her. She'd snapped at him a few days prior that if he couldn't call her Barnes by legal designation, then he could just fucking not call her anything.

He'd been notably quiet to her ever since.

"So, it's…internal?" Bucky finally spoke, slowly.

Darcy froze.

Three pairs of eyes flicked in her direction.

She was pinned there as the three main men in her life stared at her with looks of dubious intent. Ice shot down her spine.

The screen flickered, once, twice, then went snowy, like an old-school analogue TV.

And there was Aldrich Killian, smiling, like Scar in the fucking _Lion King_ movie that Darcy had hated since she'd first seen it. He didn't giggle or even move much in what appeared to be an earlier recording.

He just smiled. "And they all fall down," he murmured.

Then the speakers on Tony's state-of-the-art sound system were blaring, and so loudly that it actually, _physically_ hurt. Darcy winced, cupping her hands over her ears as a familiar song roared.

Tony's face collapsed into a look of pure, icy terror.

" _Tick, tick, tick—BOOM_!"

" _GO_!" he shouted over it, gesturing wildly for the lab door.

She could barely move she was so entirely disoriented by the assault on her senses.

But Bucky grabbed her, his metal hand painful around her wrist, and was tugging her down the hall, face set in that familiar Winter Soldier scowl.

" _Tony_ —!" she shouted, trying to twist in his grip to see back.

Bruce was standing there, at the window, eyes shut, looking suspiciously like he was trying to focus.

Tony appeared in the doorway. " _GO_!" he repeated. "Don't worry, I'll suit u—"

The blast was unlike anything Darcy had ever experienced in her entire life. She was thrown forward off her feet, Bucky's hands at her back. They were tossed around like ragdolls, her limbs wildly out of her control, a disquieting sensation all in itself.

And the _heat_.

Darcy had never felt _anything_ like it, a heat so intense, so much more intense than she would've thought even an explosion of such magnitude would be capable of producing.

She couldn't even cry out, that heat, and the force of the blast sucking all the air from her lungs, zero gravity, and she choked in midair, clutching desperately at her throat.

Just as she was able to gasp in something raw and acrid, they slammed into the earth and the air was knocked out of her all over again. She floundered for an awful, aching moment, eyes wide as her brain cried out for oxygen.

Bucky slammed into her—hard— _painfully_ hard, and she coughed as his arms came up over her head. "Don't move!" he yelled over the din as debris rained down on them, trailing smoke and flames.

How was it still so _loud_?! Her ears were _ringing_.

She couldn't have moved even if she'd wanted to, if she'd had the strength—damn, she forgot, sometimes, just how _heavy_ Jamie was. She sheltered under him, gasping for breath.

But every breath she took was a burning cinder in her lungs, bitter and brimstone.

And then it hit her—the building had just exploded.

Struggling, she wriggled until she could see around Bucky's elbow, and could only stare in dawning horror.

The bomb hadn't been planted at Avengers Tower.

Manhattan had never been in any danger.

It had all been an elaborate trap.

A good half of the complex was a fireball, black smoke rising from the fresh ruins.

The lab floors.

The workshops.

The equipment storage.

All the most flammable stuff.

Quickly turning to ash.

Because of her.

"Jamie…" she said, but her voice was a rough, gravel murmur, and, for once, he didn't hear her over the din of hungry flames. They shot wild over the complex, red, orange, yellow, angry and insistent on having their way. "Jamie…" She coughed, then started to struggle again.

One careless shift of his arm, and he had her pinned. "Stay down," he called, his Winter Soldier voice brooking no argument.

She saw a green shape streak across the tiny shape of his elbow that she could see through, rushing the complex with an animal bellow.

Bruce.

No, not Bruce.

 _The Other Guy_.

And another, horrible, horrible thought finally rang in her skull.

There was green.

But no red.

"Where's Tony?" she asked, but her voice was too low again. " _Tony_!" she tried again, hearing the terror in her own words. " _Where's Tony_?!" She genuinely began to struggle against him then, pushing at him with everything she had.

"Darcy…" was all he said, his voice low and resigned.

Her full name.

He never used her full name…

"Jamie, where's Tony?!" She shoved, hard, at his body, adrenaline coursing through her in a rushing push—

And he was shoved aside, hard.

He stared at her, his wide eyes finally drawn from the blaze.

She looked wildly around, dragging herself stiffly to her feet.

It wasn't just them; there were others standing around, some crouched and coughing.

Jane was sitting back on the grass, ash on her face, staring vacantly at the burning lab floors, probably counting all the machines she'd just lost, all the homemade tools she'd relied on for so long.

Thor, beside her, was hefting his hammer, looking like he was preparing to go in.

Hill was doubled over and coughing, hard, clutching her throat.

Beside her, Sam stood with a hand at her back.

Wanda huddled at his feet.

Steve and Natasha were both on the ground, conscious and breathing, but clutching each other as they watched the horror with pale, slack faces.

All Darcy could think was 'Thank God they'd been on the upper floor.'

Bucky stood and took a step forward.

She grabbed at his shoulder. " _Where's Tony_?!"

He spun, without a word, and took up her arm. He dragged her a few yards to their left and stopped in front of Thor. "Keep her here," he said—

And was gone, jogging toward the inferno at a quick clip.

She stared after him, her mouth slack.

Steve fell in behind him.

Sam frowned, looking like he wanted to follow, but just then, Maria fell to the ground entirely, still coughing violently, and he returned his attention to her.

Thor's large hand closed around her wrist. "Forgive me, Darcy," he murmured, his voice low.

"Thor—" she started, tugging against his hopeless grip.

"James will do what he can. Your safety, however, is paramount."

Anger boiled up, then, out of nowhere, and she gave him a death glare, wrenching at his grip with everything she had.

She wasn't sure if it was her new abilities rising to the fore, or some sort of surprise on Thor's part—

But her wrist came free.

She wasn't thinking on it too hard, though; she was plunging forward into the smoke, running desperately into the blazing ruins of the estate, Bucky and Steve just hazy blurs in the near distance before her.

She'd be damned if she was going to stand there and wait for the superheroes to get back when this shit had been her fault to begin wi—

Oh, God, this was all her fault.

She coughed, jerking to a horrified stop, raising a hand to wave futilely at the thick, acrid smoke drifting in the air.

What had she done?

She'd literally blown all her friends—who was she kidding? They were her family—sky high. For a long moment, she stood frozen in sheer terror.

She'd never forgive herself if something happened to any of them, if something had happened to Tony.

Oh, God. Tony.

She could do this part later, the hating herself.

The other half of the complex was still standing—albeit barely—and her two boys were working their way through the rubble toward it, determined and strong. Once, Steve stumbled as a piece of stonework gave way, but Bucky snatched at his arm with his lightning grip and held him steady, pulling him up to him on the ledge.

Darcy followed, cursing under her breath as she hobbled up after them in her slip-on Keds, no longer white, but streaked gray and black. She coughed again, and yanked a hand through her hair, smoothing it out of her face.

It was a minefield of rough rock, molten plastic, and bits of things that had once been recognizable.

Someone's Starkphone, singed, blown, and cracked open on one end.

The frame of a headboard.

Half a motorbike. Ugh, Tony's beautiful Ducati.

Oh, God, the flipped, hollowed out remains of the Audi R8 Spyder.

She patted her back pocket.

That might've been her fucking Starkphone, damn it.

Her eyes were stinging, mixing with the tears she couldn't manage to hold back, and she imagined herself looking like some model in a post-apocalyptic themed ad for mascara, with streaks down her face, tragically beautiful as she sulked at the camera.

Sniffling, she wiped at her face with the back of her hand, coming over a ridge of concrete to find Steve and Bucky crouched not too far ahead, pulling at absolute _boulders_ like they weighed nothing at all.

She gasped, then coughed again, her chest burning, as she catapulted down the embankment, stumbling and catching herself.

"I thought I _fucking_ told you to stay there," Bucky positively snapped, not even looking up as he pushed a human-sized rock aside.

She didn't argue; nor did she shrink away. His bark was ten times worse than his bite, especially with her. For what had happened to him, he really suffered from the rather opposite side effect of being remarkably slow to anger.

"Got him," Steve spoke up. "He's down there."

Bucky angled his gaze down into the rock.

Darcy clambered desperately forward.

There he was. Tony was tucked beneath the next hunk of rock, a bleeding gash along his forehead and another—deeper one—along the opposite cheekbone.

"Tony—"

"Hold this—I'll get him," Bucky said, his voice low. "We've gotta hurry. Killian's not one to let the job go half-finished and he knows Tony's too smart for him."

Steve pulled the boulder up and aside. "Watch his neck, keep his back straight if you can."

"I remember '42 first aid, Stevie, don't worry." With a gentleness the average person would be surprised to find in him, Bucky pulled Tony free and cradled his body against him.

Darcy swallowed thickly. " _Jamie_ , I—"

But he snatched her up in his iron grip before she could voice her guilt and yanked her close, his voice low and positively vicious with passionate resolve. " _Don't_. Don't you _fucking_ dare. _He_ did this to you, _do you understand me_?" he snapped. His eyes were all Winter Soldier, and she had to work not to flinch away from the bright blue of the determination she saw there.

Shocked speechless, she stared up at him for a long moment.

"Now _go_." He released her.

She wobbled, unsteady at his rare show of such intense feeling. But his hand was at her back and his voice softened. " _Go_ , baby doll."

Swallowing again, she started back down the embankment, her Keds reliable against the rough rubble.

But as they came back up over the ridge, their luck ran out.

A second blast sent the rubble up and out in an arc, throwing her into the air. Darcy felt like a tiny child's toy, picked up and thrown about as she was slammed back into the ground—or what substituted for it now.

She cried out in surprise and pain as stone cut into her cheek, but she didn't have time to react as she was buried. It felt like forever that stone fell, rocks pelting down, large and small, to completely obscure her.

((()))

She came to not long after to the distant sounds of panicked yelling.

It took her a moment to identify the shrieking of Pepper and had the vague notion that she must've been called back by someone from her business meeting in Manhattan.

Slowly, she was able to crawl out of her hidey hole, surprised in some corner of her mind that she was both calm and fortunate enough to have a way out. She picked her way up as quickly as she could, shoving rocks out of her way, small boulders that now seemed perfectly heavy.

Shock was setting in, her brain in survival mode, not allowing itself to think overmuch on anything that wasn't designed to keep her breathing in and out.

When she found Tony, though, by some miracle, the tether snapped clean.

Gasping back sobs, she tugged on his exposed arm until his body was freed from the rubble, revealing a huge, threatening looking gash in his temple. "Tony…" she pleaded breathlessly. "Boss Man, you still with me?" With a shaking hand, she pressed her fingers to his throat and felt it: a pulse. Unsteady and weak, but there.

Unsure of herself, she started patting him down, desperately seeking further injuries, the sort that would kill in quick order.

When she found nothing else, she had to assume the damage was to his bashed up head.

She was crying now, totally out of control, tears streaming silently down her face, accompanied only by her panicked gasps. She cupped his face, relaxed in unconsciousness. "Boss Man…?" She bit her lip, concentrating, sure that she could still pull out that strange ability she'd stumbled across last summer, and heal him, no matter what Bruce had said about her white blood cells. " _Tony_ …"

Terrified and weeping, she pressed her forehead to his, trying to hold back the sobs cramping her throat as she pushed out with whatever it was that had worked on him that fateful day in the lab. " _C'mon_ , Boss Man." She would never forgive herself if something happened to him because of her.

A rippling sensation began in her belly, like a pebble in a puddle, soft at first, before growing and widening in an arcing wave of sensation, akin to a blast of fiery heat on a bitter winter afternoon. Grabbing onto it with everything she had, she clung and rode it out, letting it take her.

 _Pain_. Pain filled her then, all at once, and so very hard she shouted it out before biting it back on her tongue, still clinging to it with her whole consciousness.

Her blood was rushing, her heart was pounding in her ears, and with a strange echo. With a cold start, she realized it wasn't an echo—it was Tony's heart, working to match hers until it had caught in one breath, two breaths.

They beat in time—

And Tony gasped himself awake, eyes wide as he jerked, his strong, mechanic's hands clenching around Darcy's wrists. "Short Stack?" he asked, and his voice was ragged and desert-dry.

She sat back to give him room to breathe as relief flooded her, sweeping in to fill her where the pain had swept out, and she laughed wetly, tears continuing to stream down her face. "Hey, Boss Man," she murmured, breathless and dizzy with effort.

He stared around with huge, shocked eyes, then latched his gaze back on her. "What did you do, Short Stack?"

She flinched. "Not really sure…"

He blinked, then blinked again, taking in their surroundings as he sat up. But, like typical Tony, he didn't say much on the current chaos, and just said, "I feel like I could run a marathon…" Then he scowled, grabbing her and tugging her close. "Just don't do that again, alright, kid?"

"Are you alright?"

Tony sneered. "Don't skirt the question, Short Stack. Don't waste whatever it is you've got on a washed-up billionaire, you hear me?"

Still trying to clear her lightheadedness, she sighed. "Tony—"

But there was a shout, then, a wordless yell, and they both turned to look.

Out of the smoke came Steve, at a bit of a distance, his shape contorted and bloodied.

The shock and relief melting like ice cubes in a stove, Darcy stilled as she stared at his approaching form. His body wasn't contorted at all—he was carrying someone, and with quite the effort, it looked like.

She jerked to standing, then tipped into Tony, who had struggled up beside her, as her head spun.

Something…something wasn't right. Something about him wasn't right.

She stared as he approached, unable to process the scene he made, Bucky in his arms, limp and heavy, and Steve—

Face shamelessly streaked with tears.

The air completely left her lungs, but she couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot as he stumbled up and laid his best friend out on the rough surface of the rubble beneath them.

"What, he got lazy, Rogers?" Tony snapped, trying to push off his own panic with grim humor, but no one missed the thin ribbon of it in his voice.

Darcy's knees folded weakly and she knelt at his side, hands shaking as she reached out to trace the vicious gash along his left temple. "Jamie…" she whispered, her voice dying in her throat.

" _What happened_?!" Tony insisted.

But Steve was barely there, his eyes glazed, and it didn't appear he was even aware that he was crying. "We were thrown apart in the second blast. I…I found him…under…under a…" And that was all he said.

Darcy pressed her fingers to his throat, but found nothing. She jerked her hand back, staring at his slack face, so peaceful, like he was asleep. Her heart began to pound double-time, but it was only half computing, raw disbelief staggering her breathing.

"There's nothing, Darcy…" Steve murmured. "…His head…"

She shook her head, the thought barely piercing, and leaned down over him, cupping his face. "Jamie…? Jamie…" She pressed her fingers against his collar again, searching for any jerk that might be a pulse, slid her hands desperately down, pressing her palms for a heartbeat.

But there was nothing, and she saw with terrible fear the awful gash on his forehead was accompanied by a large, mean contusion along the base of his skull, oozing dark, oxygen rich blood. Fatal, surely. It taunted her.

And the Winter Soldier was totally still, against the odds that he would be the one to pay the price for her new abilities.

She could hardly breathe, horror seeping into her in icy pinpricks, like sleet on a nasty Manhattan winter day, pelting against your face as you tried to see where you were going. "Jamie…"

But Tony was much more aware than either of them. "Tip his chin back," he suddenly instructed. "Open his airway."

She jerked back as he pushed himself past her, all business. The inventor had clearly excelled at emergency training at some point or other and Darcy could only stare vacantly as he applied CPR, thinking that it seemed so pointless on a super soldier.

He didn't need CPR. He needed—

Her face wet again with tears she couldn't remember shedding, she shoved him none-too-gently out of the way, and clutched at his face. "Jamie." Her hands shook and a tear fell onto his cheekbone. " _C'mon_ , Jamie. Not like this," she pleaded, her voice trembling. She tugged and pulled, searching deep for the thing she'd somehow reached, somehow harnessed only moments before on Tony.

To her horror, she found it wasn't there, wasn't where she'd left it.

She gasped with the effort, pressing her face against his metal shoulder. "Jamie, baby…"

"Darcy…" Tony's voice, soft and gentle. "Darcy, I don't think you've got anything left, baby…"

Her head started to spin, and her heart was tap dancing in her chest, but she pushed past it, pushed past the pain. "C'mon, Jamie…not like this…" she murmured, ignoring her audience, determined to find the dark, ugly thing that had taken up residence inside her, to wrench it free from where it had buried itself, deeper than before. It was down deeper than before, that's all, she just had to.

She just had to push herself a little harder to find it.

She shut her eyes, clutching Bucky's t-shirt.

Nothing.

She was hollow, bled dry.

She tried again, her vision darkening at the corners, going hazy as her consciousness shuttered uncertainly. "God damn it. Jamie, please. Jamie," she pleaded, her beseeching finally grasping her until she sobbed.

Steve's hand on her shoulder.

"What the hell happened?!" Natasha, her voice thin and raw.

No one answered her.

Pain. Again. Awful, inescapable pain, of such she'd never experienced before, so hard and all-consuming that it was all she could do to remain conscious.

It erupted in her heart, tugging her down, flush against Bucky's unmoving chest and her vision went dim. " _Jamie_ …" she begged.

" _Someone stop her_!" Bruce shouted, less monstrous growl, more mousy scientist. " _She'll drain herself dry_!"

She heard him perfectly well, but she was caught in the undertow, and she found, somewhere in her mind, that she didn't really care if she drowned. She just rode the crest of the wave.

And the world shrank and fell away into darkness.


	21. Chapter 21: Master of the Mystic

**Chapter 21** **: Master of the Mystic**

 **Summary:** **In which Darcy has a meltdown and Tony Stark makes a very...strange friend.**

 **Notes:** **Hi All! So...yeah. Sorry for that cliffhanger. In my defense, I did warn you, like, half a dozen times. And apologize in advance. So. Sorry. Again. I won't keep you with these notes, therefore, I'll just let you get to it. Let me know how you like. Chapter title taken from...I can't really tell you, as it's sort of a spoiler. If you recognize it, then good for you! But, anyway, it belongs to Michael Giacchino, great soundtrack. Love y'all! Shoot me a comment! Sarah**

((()))

She came awake all at once, jerking, her eyes snapping open to reveal a view of a white ceiling, clean and sterile and bright.

"Whoa, there, Short Stack," a familiar voice said beside her, low and soothing. "Take it easy."

She snapped her gaze to the left and found Tony in a chair beside her bed, bandaged, his left arm in a sling, his left cheek stitched. But he was giving her a tender look. "Take it easy, baby girl."

She jerked again, alarmed at the unfamiliar surroundings, and came up onto her elbows, her mind supplying her with little in the way of memory.

"Whoa. C'mon, Darce. Lie back down." Tony stood and placed his good hand on her shoulder.

"Where are we?" she demanded, her voice dry and rough from disuse.

He pushed down on her shoulder. "We're back at the Tower."

She blinked, then blinked again, her eyes taking forever to adjust to the light.

"Brought you back in the Quinjet. Wasn't about to road trip it with you falling apart on me." He pushed down again on her shoulder, glancing over his own toward the adjoining doorway.

Road trip.

She slumped back as the magnitude of everything that had happened hit her like a freight train, the effect knocking her flat on her back and gasping again, pain pulling tears up and out in a record two seconds flat. "Jamie," she gasped, clutching at her chest, where it felt like an ice cream scoop had dug a hole out of her. "Oh, _God_ …"

Tony flinched.

She sat up again, slowly, dragging his arm aside. "Where is he?"

The inventor visibly hesitated. "Darce…"

"I have to see him," she snapped. "Where _is_ he?!"

Even he couldn't stop the automatic reflex to look up at the opposite door, giving himself away.

And she was dropping down from the bed without thinking, staggering as the room spun again and catching herself up on the foot.

"Darce—you're not supposed to be up yet—" he said, making a grab for her.

But she used all her willpower to evade him, crossing the room toward the door.

"Bruce!" he yelled.

She stopped in the doorway, staring into the adjoining room. It looked much the same as the one she'd woken up in, all bright white and barely recognizable. But she didn't notice.

"Darcy…" Bruce scolded, frowning from the side of the bed.

But she didn't notice the room and she didn't hear him.

She could only stare at the figure in the lone hospital bed, both familiar and a Perfect. Fucking. _Stranger_.

 _Her_ Jamie was strong, built like an ox, thick and strapping.

 _Her_ Jamie had endured so much to get where he was, _so much_ , and his will had made him tough and unbeatable.

 _Her_ Jamie was handsome, with that soft hair around his face, and his sea glass eyes, and his secret blush at just the right prompting, at the tips of his ears, and his sunny smile.

 _Her_ Jamie, with his jangling laugh and his scrunched up nose, and his crinkly eyes, and his charming wink, and his _cooking_ and his _slow dancing_ and his arms, tucked just right around her, and his big hands and his determination to surpass _everything_ awful in his past.

He was impossible to knock down, her Jamie.

 _This was not her Jamie_.

This Jamie looked fragile and weak, pale and gaunt, like he was hanging on by a thread, not all there, under threat of floating away like a balloon on a string on a sunny summer afternoon in the park.

This Jamie was connected to wires and needles, hooks, and tubes and machines.

This Jamie came with the additional equipment, a beeping heart monitor and a wheezing oxygen machine, his handsome face obscured by all the mess.

This Jamie looked half dead.

Darcy wasn't sure this Jamie had regained his pulse.

She wasn't sure where _this_ Jamie ended and _her_ Jamie began.

She stared, her hand over her mouth, listening to her own ragged breathing, horror at what she'd done seeping into her bones, drip by drop, like the tears beating tracks down her face.

"He's _alive_ ," Bruce said as he straightened his glasses. "I don't know what you did, Darcy, but he's alive."

Her knees wobbled unsteadily beneath her, unsure they wanted to continue in their efforts to hold her up.

" _Whoa_ …" And Tony was there, behind her, his good arm around her waist, leaning her back against him. "Whoa, Short Stack. Take it easy. I've gotcha." He helped her stagger forward while Bruce moved a chair up to the side of the bed, watching her with sharp eyes the whole while until he took over and helped her settle in the plastic seat.

Claiming her brain back from its wooziness, she sat there, silent and staring at him, the breathing tube over his face and mouth, his pale skin, the gash that remained on his temple and brow, curling around the back of his skull. She couldn't speak.

"If you're wondering what kind of injury would be capable of taking out a super soldier, this is a good place to start," he said, sitting down across the bed from her. "I don't know how you did what you did. Super soldier or not, Darcy, he…" He shook his head, deliberately leaving it hanging.

"Shouldn't be alive," she whispered.

He met her gaze with a steady, knowing stare. "Considerable damage to both the Occipital Lobe and his Cerebellum, hence he's hooked up. Must've taken something to the head, but Steve doesn't know what might've happened, only that he found him soon after."

She nodded, swallowing thickly and making a study of her hands, knotted and shaking, in her lap. "He's not breathing on his own." Again, she found herself unable to speak above a whisper. It felt all sorts of wrong that a human made capable of such strength, vitality, and purpose could be reduced to…

Bruce sighed. "No. He's not."

"Is there any brain activity?" Tony asked, pulling up a chair with his good arm.

Bruce pulled a hand through his hair. "Yes. So there's that. That's good."

"Are you okay?" Darcy suddenly asked, having not really consciously decided to, and this time, her voice was clear. "You look exhausted."

Bruce blinked at her in surprise. "Um." A small smile. "I'm fine, Darcy. The Other Guy takes a lot outta me, that's all. Takes more than a couple days to get back to normal. Nothing to worry about."

She nodded, swallowing again, her throat tight.

He sighed again. "There's a lot of brain activity, actually. But I'm no neurosurgeon, Darcy."

Tony sat forward. "I may…be able to use my connections, here," he said. "Just…putting that out there."

Darcy jerked. "What?"

Bruce raised a brow. "Strange?"

Tony shrugged. "Never met him, but…we used to run in the same circles. Might be worth a shot. I hear he's been…getting into some…odd trouble lately."

Bruce narrowed his eyes, studying the inventor. "See what you can do. I'll run scans later. I wanted to see if I could regulate him for a while before I went ahead with that, but…"

Darcy's hands were locked in her lap and she couldn't bring herself to look up. "There's been no improvement since we got back?" Again, back to whispers, her throat closing as she spoke until it cut out entirely on the last word and she realized that she was back to fiddling with her ring.

Tony set a steadying hand on her shoulder.

Bruce sat there for a long moment, just looking at her with half a wince, his Adam's Apple moving up, then down and a muscle in his jaw clenching, then unclenching, then clenching as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Finally, he shook his head. "No."

Finally, with a deep, deep breath, she looked up and met his gaze full-on. "Isn't he supposed to heal? I mean, he's—"

"I'm not Zola, either, Darcy," Bruce cut in, speaking gently. "I'm sorry. I just don't know enough concerning the details of what was done to him. I…I'm IT, but I didn't…program him, if you'll pardon the comparison. Something like that is just as varied as the one who did the programming. I just don't know enough to really help him, Darcy. I might as well be a card-carrying doctor, but I'm certainly not experienced in…altering the human brain."

" _What's wrong_ , though, Banner?" Tony finally asked. "Just give it all to her straight. You haven't had the balls to tell me either." He squeezed Darcy's shoulder. "I've been dogging him since I put you in that hospital bed."

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "He's got a pretty severe laceration to the back of his head. That gash on his temple is also on the severe side. Probably whiplash." He shrugged. "We probably all have whiplash, but we're all running so high no one's noticed."

Darcy nodded, swallowing, again, twisting her ring on her finger, one way, then the other, then back again.

"Again, I'm no neurosurgeon, but I'm getting brain activity. That's good. I'm not sure it's the _right kind_ —he is, after all, on the oxygen machine. But he's enhanced. So…there's really no way to give you a prognosis. He should've begun healing by now, so…I don't know, Darcy. I'm sorry, but we're really in new territory here. For all I know about it, he could…be like this indefinitely. I'm not sure why he isn't responding the way he should."

She got as far as his hand with her eyes, and paused there, staring at it, strong, but not, limp and empty at his side, the vibranium alloy totally useless.

"Did anything…strange happen…in Hawaii?" Bruce pressed. "Anything that you noticed after you'd taken flight from Killian?"

She flinched away from the sight of the metal plates. "He…was acting a little…weird, yeah."

Tony sat forward. "'Weird' how?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Withdrawn, a little, I guess."

Bruce nodded. "And?"

She tried to clear her throat but it was a fruitless endeavor. "I dunno. He was sort of like he was when we first met. Just sort of…closed off. Processing." She swallowed again. "I think whatever they used to keep him out of the beach house might've…knocked things loose."

" _Things_?" Bruce pushed.

She shrugged again. "Things he couldn't remember before. He told me things…that he'd tried to escape, twice…that he…" She sighed and tugged a hand through her hair. "That he was there. In Texas. In '63."

The room went silent, the only sounds the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the huffing of the oxygen machine.

"You know," Tony spoke. "I always figured Oswald was a patsy."

Bruce frowned at him in a scolding manner. "Furthermore, Darcy, if you would really like it ' _straight'_ , what you did back there was _extremely foolish_."

She blinked, all of this slowly coming into focus. "What…?"

Bruce stood and started pacing restlessly. "Darcy, you nearly _killed_ yourself over him out there."

Tony sighed and sat back. "He's right."

But she could only sit and stare at Bucky, looking so lifeless and unlike himself, and she could think of no valid response that they would accept. "So?"

Bruce jerked to a stop and whipped around to stare at her. " _So_?!"

She shrugged again. "Yeah."

"Darcy, you _collapsed_. You've barely _moved_ for the past _forty-eight hours_. I wasn't even sure, for a while, that you were _breathing_. Whatever reserves you've built up, they were _empty_ , Darcy, you were putting _yourself_ into him. Do you understand that?!"

But she could only sit there, watching his chest as it moved, unnaturally, with his provided breath. She didn't even realize the tears were back until one had splashed down on her hand. She didn't move. "Where else am I supposed to put it?"

Silence.

Bruce stared at her, his mouth open.

She met his gaze unapologetically, though combativeness wasn't at all on her mind just then.

Finally, Tony spoke again, his voice low. "Bruce, c'mon."

Banner's eyes flicked to his friend's face.

Tony sighed. "Betty?"

The Hulk's alter ego positively deflated at the mention of his sort-of lady love. He stood there, staring at her with a hopelessly sad expression. "I'm sorry I barked at you."

She nodded.

"We're all…a little out of sorts."

He slumped back down again and the three of them sat, watching Bucky's still form, and listening to the equipment do their jobs. "Surprisingly, there…isn't much of anything else wrong with him."

Darcy snorted, once, humorlessly. "Yeah. Surprise, surprise."

((()))

They fell into a routine, of sorts.

Darcy stayed for the morning, then went to Tony's lab to get some work done. He insisted she was off the hook until further notice, but she pushed for _any_ distraction to be had, anything at all.

Bruce kept her apprised of the situation, but there was usually very little to report. Nothing changed in his prognosis. He just…was there, but _not_ there.

Usually, when she returned around mid-afternoon, someone was sitting with him, just sitting and watching with a tight mouth and a hesitant, confused sort of expression. The first day it was Steve, then the second, it was Natasha.

Darcy went in that afternoon and let her bag slide down off her shoulder with a soft sound to the floor and of all people, the Russian spy actually started a little, looking up at her friend with a dazed sort of frown. "Hey," Darcy murmured.

But Natasha didn't answer. Instead, she stood and launched herself at her, wrapping Darcy in a long, tight hug, silent and shocked.

Darcy blinked, but accepted it in surprise, patting awkwardly at her back.

And then she was gone, having said not a word, back out of the lab.

She had tried to sleep there overnight the first night, but both Tony and Bruce had barred her from doing so, and the both of them together as a united front was something Darcy wasn't mentally prepared to try to outsmart. So she did as she was told, went up to their suite, and laid there for about six hours, unable to sleep and staring up at the dark ceiling instead. Finally, she pulled herself up and read in her chair by the window by the light of the skyscraper signs next door, only half paying any attention to the words on the page.

It was all feeling a bit like déjà vu, really, only this time, while she was alone in their apartment, Bucky wasn't roaming the streets like his alter ego; he was downstairs, in a hospital bed, like a regular human, frail and vacant.

On the third day, though, the routine changed.

On the third day, Darcy walked in to find Jane sitting at the side of the bed.

Darcy was totally drained, both emotionally and mentally, and so she hadn't been prepared for a turn of events like this; in fact, she stood, staring into the room for a moment from the doorway, her brain cycling in circles, unable to process.

And she'd have been surprised, really, if she'd been capable of looking at the situation rationally; instead, after everything that had happened, she was instantly furious.

Her filter, fragile as it was on a good day, snapped. "Now you decide to show up, huh?" she drawled, coming into the room and dropping her bag next to the chair and smoothing her matchstick pants and striped Henley down. " _Now_?" She was barely aware of how cold she sounded.

And she was, actually, _freezing_. She hadn't been warm for _days_.

Jane jumped, looking up at her with wide eyes. "I—"

"If you're thinking of unplugging anything, just know that JARVIS has fail-safes built into the equipment."

Jane flinched.

But Darcy didn't slow. "That's my chair; move."

Lurching, she did so, folding her arms over her chest.

Darcy sat down, crossed her legs, and then her arms, and sat in silence, as usual, watching him but also, somehow, unable to truly look him full in the form, averting her eyes entirely. Her vital, strong Jamie lying prone in a hospital bed felt too _wrong_.

"You think I would do that?" Jane spoke, quietly, a moment later.

Darcy snorted. "I dunno, Jane, you seemed awful sure, a few days ago, that he was a hairsbreadth from killing us all."

Jane was silent.

Darcy settled on her anger, seized the rage and held onto it, tight, letting it encase her like armor against the awful, biting teeth of her melancholy, the deep, aching grief that ensnared her, every afternoon, when she let herself stand in that doorway and listen to the oxygen machine. It was better than falling to pieces in front of her oldest friend, better than waiting for the inevitable ' _I told you so'_.

"He's not breathing on his own?" Jane finally asked.

"No."

"Why not? He's like Steve. Steve bounced back after DC, even with _three bullets_ in him. I mean, Buc…" She trailed off. "Never mind."

 _After Bucky nearly beat him to death_.

"I dunno, Jane. But if you came here to gloat, you can get the fuck out."

Again, a moment of shocked silence.

"You think I would do that?"

Darcy turned in her chair to give her a level look. "Well, you _definitely_ succeeded in making your opinion on the matter clear, didn't you? You certainly made it clear that I had to choose between you and him, didn't you?"

Jane flinched.

"So I did. Happy?"

Jane sighed, looking away. "No."

"And whose fault is that, Foster? Hm?"

She sighed. "I just didn't want to see you get hurt," she offered, her voice small.

Her anger sharpened. "Well you _did_. You got to see it. What do you think you're looking at _right now_?" she snapped. "The irony is not lost on me, make _no_ mistake."

The astrophysicist wilted. "I didn't mean like this—"

"Oh, _riiight_. You meant that you thought he'd shank me in my sleep, or that he'd strangle me, right? You meant that you thought he'd randomly revert to type and see me as the enemy, right? You meant that he'd be _totally_ okay with letting the monster they made him off his leash, didn't you? Why don't you just admit it? Hm? Just _admit_ that you secretly thought he was still the Winter Soldier all along. That he'd been him the _whole time_ , that he'd _always_ been him, and that he _enjoyed_ it, that he _liked_ killing people with his _bare hands_. The good old American Soldier, saved your ass during World War _Fucking_ Two, why kill _Nazis_ when you can kill everyone in sight, right? Maria's really onto something, isn't she? Maybe Darcy was just a convenient whore of an op, _right_?!" She smiled nastily. "You should've seen him when I told him what she'd said that day. He was _furious_." It felt so good to _finally_ unload. She couldn't stop; she didn't want to.

Jane sighed. "You _know_ that's not what I mea—"

Darcy stood, her voice rising. "Then what _did_ you mean, Jane?! That I was a little girl who needed _parenting_? That I had _no_ idea what I was doing, befriending possibly _the saddest_ human being I'd ever met? Oh, wait, that was part of the problem, though, wasn't it? He _wasn't. Even. Human_."

Jane flinched. "He just…scared me."

Darcy heaved a sigh and sat back down, shaking her head. "That's because you never even bothered to _look_ at him. Never bothered to _listen_. You just formed a hypothesis in your _Science!_ brain and let it expand until you couldn't see around it."

Jane stared at her. "I just…"

"We've been friends for _years_ , Jane. Wasn't it enough to ask that you _trust_ me? Or was I just _that_ good at being Silly Darcy for you? Hm? Was I _that_ good of an actress, that you _really_ thought I was just brash and _stupid_?"

And there it was: the root of the problem.

Jane blinked. " _No_ , I…"

"Because I didn't fool him. Not for a _minute_. He saw _right_ through me."

The silence was deafening.

The monitor continued to beep, regular and steady and Darcy wondered what Bruce's reaction was to this in the adjoining room. Surely, he was there, and surely he'd heard everything so far; Darcy hadn't made any attempt at being quiet.

She could picture him sitting there, brows in his hairline as he listened from his desk chair.

"He, uh…he went back in. After the explosion. For Tony," Jane finally said, looking down at the floor.

The anger, though, it was slowly siphoning off, leaving her depleted again. "Surprised to find that James Barnes is a good man?"

Jane surprised her all on her own and didn't bother denying it. "Yeah. I was, a little. I mean…the Winter Soldier's not a…superhero. You know?"

Darcy snorted again, suddenly exhausted. She had no idea how long it had been since she'd actually slept in more than short fits and starts. "Nah, he's not a superhero. He's just a _mindless assassin_." She turned to look at her. "You know, he killed JFK. Wasn't Oswald. The conspiracy freaks were right: it was _him_."

She wasn't sure why she said it; perhaps just the joy of seeing Jane's shocked expression.

But she just nodded.

"I _love_ him," she said, voice stern and fierce. " _I love him_ , Jane."

Jane nodded again. "I know."

"He's sweet. And kind. And warm and gentle. He's a _gentleman_. He _listens_ when I talk. He doesn't laugh at me, he takes me _seriously_. He wants me to fight my own battles, but he's the most chivalrous man I've ever met. He protects me. He treats me like a _queen_. He _loves_ me, and it's _so_ much more that he ever thought he'd be able to have, he gives me _so much more_ than _I_ thought he'd be able to give me."

Jane nodded, looking down at the floor again.

"And he's suffered _enough_. He's suffered more than anyone should have to suffer in _three_ lifetimes, Jane. He deserves some compassion and patience, after _everything_ they did to him."

"I know."

" _Do_ you?" Darcy challenged, refusing to flinch as she narrowed her eyes and studied the woman, even as the exhaustion began to gain ground, winning the battle, and tears began to pool behind her eyes. " _Do you_? I don't think you do, Jane. I think your astrophysicist brain is incapable of understanding the concept. Frankly, I have no idea what your relationship even _is_ with Thor and I'm still completely reeling that I could support you through all your Asgard _shit_ and that you could turn around and be such a _monumental bitch_."

There. She'd said it, even as those damnable tears leaked out and down her face, her voice trembling and rasping.

Jane flinched, hard, and stared.

"So I hope you're happy, now. You got what you wanted, so please. Just _go_."

She visibly hesitated.

" _Just go, Jane_ ," she begged, inwardly horrified that the moment she finally fell apart after _days_ of stalwart refusal to cave, had to be in front of _fucking Jane Foster_. At least it wasn't Wanda—or Maria. She turned her back on her, and Bucky's still form was a blur through her tears.

But she wouldn't leave, now, as though Darcy's cruel dismissal had spurred something. "I…I just…I came to apologize. Like, _really_ apologize. I was…I was _awful_. You were right: I was a _total_ bitch and…"

Darcy was shaking against it, determined to hold it at bay. She would not fall apart again, not like she had last winter in their kitchen. She would _not_. " _Please_ , Jane," she gasped. " _Just get out. Just go_."

"Foster."

Tony's voice, near the doorway, low and dark, ruffled daddy feathers.

She hiccupped, pressing her hand to her face to try to stem the flow. It was rising, in a wave, now, a crest she couldn't ride out. She was going to drown in the undertow.

Shuffling. Jane sighed, and was gone.

A single sob escaped before she clapped her hands over her mouth, folding in on herself and unable to look at him any longer.

"It's gonna be okay, Short Stack," Tony finally said from very close behind her. His hand settled, firm, around her shoulder. "You know we'll figure something out, baby girl."

A betraying whimper escaped, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face, and she wondered how one person was capable of so much crying.

"I've gotcha, Short Stack," he murmured, coming around her chair and crouching in front of her. "I'm here."

And she lost, _spectacularly_ , all her grief breaking free of the damn she'd carefully constructed, brick by brick.

Tony stood and gathered her to him, wrapping his arms around her and murmuring lowly. "It's okay, Darce. It's gonna be okay, kiddo." He swayed, pressing his chin to the top of her head, and let her cry into his shoulder.

((()))

Tony left an hour later, silent and grim, and in search of lunch. Pepper, with a look of sympathy and encouragement, accompanied him, leaving a carrying container full of Starbucks coffee on the table in Darcy's suite. She went up to shower and pelt away the puffiness from her face.

When she opened the door to go back down to the lab, she found Steve in the hallway, hand up to knock, and smirked. "Sent to babysit me, Rogers?"

But he shook his head. "No. I came up to keep you from going back down."

She frowned. "Why?"

He shrugged and brushed past her, into the apartment. "Because you've been down there enough. Bruce will call if something changes. You should only sit down there for so long, Darce. You'll drive yourself crazy." And he sat down on the couch and turned to give her a stern look.

For a moment, she hesitated, still holding the door open stubbornly. Then she heaved a sigh, and shut it with a snap. " _Fine_. You super soldiers, you're so _bossy_." And she threw herself down beside him.

Totally naturally, and without a trace of awkwardness about him, he pulled her legs up and over and set them across his lap. Then he looked at her, long and hard, and she tried not to squirm under that gaze, so similar to Bucky's really, searching and concerned, a remnant, she figured, from back when. "Well?" he finally asked, his brow all crinkly and worried.

She blinked. " _Well_ , what?"

He squeezed her shin. "How ya holdin' up?"

She snorted. "You'd _really_ make someone a great grandpa, Steve."

He smirked. "I'm _serious_. Are you okay?"

She could've lied. She could've blown it off and shrunk it down into a tiny, insignificant _thing_. She was pretty sure, with most the people in the Tower, she would have.

But she couldn't with Steve, _physically_ couldn't manage it. She took a breath and held it. "No."

He nodded, reaching for the side table and plucked up a coffee, studied the scribbling on the side, and handed it to her.

She accepted it and took a sip, then stared. "How'd she…?"

He squeezed her shin again and took up another for himself, probably straight black. "Pep saw you, with Tony, I think."

She flinched.

"Asked me if there was anything I thought she could do to help. I gave her one word: coffee."

And there they were again: tears, pricking at the backs of her eyes, and she blinked them back, nodding down at her cup. "You know me too well, Steve."

He winked at her, a small, sad smile there, on his lips. "I know." Then he sighed. "Jane tried to apologize, huh?"

" _Again_. Picked a hell of a time and place."

He nodded.

"Said she was surprised he'd gone back in for Tony."

His eyebrows rose. "And?"

She shrugged. "And I called her a bitch."

Surprisingly, he didn't scold, he just snorted.

"I'm just so _tired_ of the judging. _Everyone_ in this tower—with the possible exception of you—has a past. Most of them are pretty nasty. But that's the _past_ , you know? It's _over_. But that's not the case with him, that's not good enough. How many people has Thor killed? But _that's_ okay, I guess. Maria has no problem with _him_."

"Maria needs to cool her jets."

"Maria needs a punch in the fucking throat, Steve."

He smirked again.

They fell back into silence, and she drank her Dolce Latte. He kept running his hand up and down her shins, smoothing down her periwinkle blue yoga pants under his palm.

"Something I never thought I'd see," she murmured into the quiet.

He looked up. "Hm?"

"Him. Like…like _that_. He's just so…he's so _big_. And…and tough and solid, and he's not supposed to be in a hospital bed, like a _normal_ human being."

He nodded solemnly. "You're telling _me_. It's been the other way around for…well, for as long as I can remember, Darce."

She set her empty cup on the coffee table and reached to straighten the photo of him in his uniform the way she liked it.

Steve's eyes latched onto it and he spoke, his voice low. "He was always taking care of me. Moved out and made sure I'd stay with him; didn't trust me to take care of myself, I think." He chuckled softly, his eyes a thousand miles away. "Always got me whatever medicine I needed, made sure I went to the see the doctors. And he always lied when I asked him how much it all cost. I could hardly work, and I know it all ate up most of his paycheck. Think he paid the rent with smoke and mirrors. I don't know how he kept us afloat."

She studied Steve while he studied the photograph on the table. He looked strained and tired, the lines around his eyes tight. He had some uncharacteristic scruff along his jaw line, too, that she sort of wanted to run her fingers across, she missed the action so much suddenly.

"Always found me a date, though I was a hopeless cause. Had no qualms about sharing with me the nights I was sick, to keep me warm—especially when the heat went out or we went without it. Sat up with me when I had a fever, barely slept, then got up for his shift at the diner or the garage after napping in the chair beside the bed. Don't know how he did it. Better than living under his pop's thumb, I guess."

She was fascinated, but she dare not speak, lest she break the spell; nor was it anyone's story to tell but Bucky's.

He lapsed into silence.

Darcy wasn't fond of silence. The silence made it easier to think, for the thoughts to wage war against her internal defenses. And now she couldn't stop staring at the photograph on the coffee table. "He hates that photograph. Thinks he looks like a jerk."

Steve snorted.

"This is my fault," she murmured.

Steve looked at her, his head whipped up. "Dar—"

"It is." She nodded. "I've…been trying not to think about it, but it's there. It's in the back of my head. _I_ did this, Steve. It's _my_ fault. I should've just…left, and hunted down Killian as soon as Tony told me what was going on."

Steve sighed. "No. Darcy, you _can't_ think that."

" _Why not_?" She turned to look at him with a challenge. "I had a _choice_. I could've left. You all would've been safer. Instead, _look_ at this. Tony's in a sling, he's walking around like an old man. And that's even _with_ what I did to heal him!"

He turned to face her. "Darcy, _Aldrich Killian_ did this to you. That's _it_. You remember what Buck said?"

And there they were, yet again: the awful, burning, betraying tears at the back of her throat, edging their way out, even as she fought them tooth and claw. "Then why is my husband lying downstairs, _half dead_?!" she nearly shouted, the tears rolling down her face. "Steve, _why_ isn't the serum healing him?! What's wrong—what did I _do_?!" She stood, lunging up off the couch, suddenly unable to sit there any longer, unable to stand it any longer. "What did I _do_ to him, Steve?! I used _everything_ I had on Tony and then _Jamie_ …" She gasped, the tears tightening her voice, and covered her mouth with a hand, horrified. "Oh, God, _Jamie_ …"

Steve got up and approached as though to embrace her.

But she jerked out of the way, flinching. " _Don't_ touch me, _please_!" she begged, fleeing. "Not right now." She went to the window and pressed a hand against it, leaning there, gasping for breath, wheezing.

But he approached anyway. "Darcy…"

She gasped. " _Oh, God_ …this is a _fucking_ nightmare. This isn't _happening_ , Steve, _tell me this isn't happening_!"

He grabbed her, really rather roughly for Captain America, and turned her in his hands to face him. "Darcy, you're having a panic attack. I need you to _breathe_." He cupped her face and brought it up close to his. " _Breathe_."

"All I got was a _month_ , Steve! A fucking _month_!"

"Darcy…"

"I haven't even changed my name! I haven't had the _chance_! I'm still Darcy fucking _Lewis_!"

He shook her. "Darcy, _listen to me_ —"

"I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to _do_ now, Steve. What am I supposed to _do_? Is there paperwork or a—a—oh, God, a _will_ , or—"

"Darcy, _breathe_."

"And I _joked_ about looking awful in black and that I was way too young to be a widow, Steve—I was _joking_!"

" _Darcy_ —"

Just then, a beeping sound started, filling the space. It shook them both loose, and they jumped, staring around for a moment, until an infographic hologram shimmered up over the dining room table, red.

 _Medical Ward Alert,_ JARVIS announced in his typical calm, dulcet tones.

" _Shit_ —" Darcy gasped, darting for the door.

Steve wasn't far behind her.

She slammed her hand into the elevator call button, then slammed it into the button for the lab floor, Steve's enhanced stamina the only thing keeping him from being crushed between the doors.

When they finally opened again, the two of them spilled out into the hallway and slid through the doorway, Darcy catching herself up on the jamb while Steve pulled a classic Tom Cruise/ _Risky Business_ slide straight through in his worn Converse All Stars.

Bruce was working over Bucky, frantic, his normally calm face pinched in a frown of concentration.

Bucky jerked, like a string was tugging on his sternum, or he'd been applied with the paddles.

Darcy gasped, standing there at the bedside and hovering, unsure what to do.

"What's happening?" Steve finally asked, coming up behind her and setting his hands on her shoulders.

She took a breath, leaning back into him. Steve was so good for strength when you needed support.

"He's rejecting the oxygen," Bruce grunted, tugging at one of the many lines tangled around the bed.

" _Why_?!"

"I can't be sure, yet. If I can get it _off_ —" He gave a great pull.

Bucky lurched up off the bed again.

The beeping came to an abrupt halt.

The heart monitor calmed, then regulated.

They all stood, staring, the abrupt absence of the oxygen machine's wheezing a shock in the sudden silence.

Bucky's chest rose in a deep, deep inhale.

"—I'd be able to determine if it was because he had regained the ability to breathe on his own," Bruce finished, slumping exhaustedly down in a chair. He tucked the tubing under one arm.

Darcy, able to smile for the first time in days, turned to embrace Steve, who was grinning. He brushed the tears away that were still on her face with his big thumbs, and held her close.

"He's breathing, Steve," she whispered. "He's breathing."

He sighed. "He is."

((()))

Over the next week, Tony made it his mission to keep an eye on her— _again_ —in Bucky's absence, and between him and Steve, Darcy felt a little on the claustrophobic side. They were so sweet and tender, though, so gallant and _ridiculous_ , that she didn't have the heart to say anything.

And besides—she knew she'd miss it if they stopped.

Natasha largely gave her space, but Darcy noticed she started coming around more, too, just _happened_ to be in the lab at just the right time of the afternoon, just _happened_ to be walking down the hall outside their suite, just _happened_ to have a six-pack of Corona and a net of limes with her, and— _Oh! Look!_ Natasha had never claimed to be _anything_ like domestic in her _entire_ life, but she forgot she was carrying around this paper grocery bag with two frozen pizzas, a bag of chips, and a tub of orange sherbet. She couldn't _possibly_ eat all of it herself.

Darcy smirked, but opened the door, let her in, and shut it firmly behind them.

And the Corona was still icy cold.

"You know, you guys don't have to hover like you did last spring—Darcy is in no danger of succumbing to feeling sorry for herself this time."

Natasha bumped the oven shut with her hip. "You weren't feeling sorry for yourself last time, Darce. And I'm not hovering. I'm…offering."

Darcy laughed— _actually_ laughed—and rolled her eyes. "Oh, _totally_. Yeah, _offering_." She sighed, sipping her Corona. "Where's Captain Hot Butt?"

Natasha slid into her side of the couch. "Moving us back in upstairs."

Darcy choked, trying not to spray her beer over the coffee table. " _What_?! You're moving back in?"

The spy shrugged. "We…missed the action around here. Felt too…weird, out there, with the…"

"Muggles?"

"Right."

"Yeah, it's sort of eye opening, when you walk out onto the street and realize that you know things the average person on the corner would run from. The inner workings of what it takes to keep those people on those corners. It's…kind of lonely," Darcy philosophized.

Natasha nodded. "Exactly. Steve wanted a place for us, but…a couple weeks ago, I caught him lingering on the training floor, and when I suggested it, he jumped at the chance."

"Goof," Darcy chuckled, and sat forward, grabbed a chip, straightened the picture frame on the table, and went back to her beer. "Awesome. Took you guys long enough."

Natasha watched the nervous action silently, choosing not to comment. She remembered Darcy mentioning how much Bucky hated that photograph, but she'd always thought he looked particularly handsome in it, although something about that soft, shaggy cut he kept his hair in now was seriously appealing.

And Darcy had confirmed it; it was: so, so buttery soft.

"I wasn't sure I'd like it here, to be honest," she suddenly said, her gaze lingering transparently on the photograph. "I mean, I hated that tiny apartment I was renting—if you could call it that—but…I guess…I wasn't sure this would feel like…home."

She spoke in that way she used when she was feeling particularly vulnerable—choppy and stuttering, and her eyes continued to linger on the frame.

"Stupid of me, really."

Natasha leaned forward to retrieve her beer from her coaster—and maybe to test if Darcy's gaze could be redirected—and frowned. "Why?"

She shrugged. "It's not the apartment…it's the…person living in the apartment."

Silence lingered, and Darcy finally looked away, up into Natasha's face, her expression vaguely imploring, and Natasha felt a pang of sympathy. If Steve were down there, she'd be spinning hopelessly around.

So she took a breath and decided she ought to just ask what she'd been wanting to and avoiding, knowing it would make things even worse. "You sleeping okay?"

Darcy shrugged. "No."

She chuckled. "At least you're honest." She sighed. "There's a spare bed—"

"It wouldn't matter," Darcy hastily cut her off, her voice soft. "Empty bed's still an empty bed. And even a heating blanket is cooler than he is at night—and it doesn't breathe." A sad smile. "Thanks, though."

Natasha shrugged.

Just then, the oven timer went off, and Darcy hauled herself up, setting down her beer on the kitchen counter on her way across the room.

Restless, Natasha got up, taking her own bottle with her, and she sipped discontentedly as she moved around the space.

It was cozy. Lived-in, but neat.

A blue blanket, half folded, was tossed across the ottoman.

The bookshelf was half full, one side with novels, the other DVDs and CDs. She cocked her head to read the spines. Various textbooks on Political Science, history books. The entire hardcover collection of _Harry Potter._ _To Kill A Mockingbird_. _The Great Gatsby_. Some fantasy and science fiction, _The Lord of the Rings_.

Darcy's broad taste in films Natasha already knew very well.

The nineties dominated the music selections, but there was a wide range there, too, and in vaguely timeline order. Sam Cooke, an Elvis collection. A whole lot of Beatles, some Guess Who, Led Zeppelin. Queen, Boston, Cheap Trick. Eighties rock. U2. Then right on through to the Boy Band Era. Backstreet, Hanson, before taking a small detour into alternative, Oasis and The Verve, then the crossover punk rock genre, My Chemical Romance, Paramore. The shelf finished with a handful of classical collections, Beethoven and some movie scores, _King Arthur, Pride and Prejudice, New Moon_.

Darcy slid the pizza onto a tray and slid the rack carefully back in, hissing that her oven mitt was a hair too thin.

Natasha continued along the wall, finding hanging frames before the hallway to the rest of the apartment, the master bedroom and the ensuite bath.

Three frames, actually, in varying size and hung to draw the eye at an angle. The top one was just a single frame, with a picture of Bucky and Steve from way back when, laughing as they stood together in their gear. They looked like they were in the middle of an op and someone had thought to pull out a camera and take a shot of them, laughing on a snowy embankment. Steve's face was warm, his mouth open in a wide smile. Bucky's nose was scrunched, and there they were—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that had given even someone as ageless as him just the beginnings of laugh lines.

The old uniforms made them both look rather rugged and even more handsome than they usually did.

The frame hanging kitty korner had numerous slots in it; Natasha counted five. The top was a shot of just Darcy and Bucky, standing in what she thought must've been the foyer of the museum downtown. Yes, there was the dinosaur behind them. Darcy was grinning like a fool, but Bucky wasn't even looking at the camera as Darcy held it out; he was looking at her, a soft look of affection there in his eyes.

The next one was a candid photo that Natasha thought Darcy must've sneaked one evening when Bucky was in a particularly calm mood. After all, just looking at a few of these told Natasha that the Winter Soldier wasn't fond of having his picture taken.

Who could blame him, really?

He was sitting on one end of the couch—the end she'd chosen, actually—under that blue blanket, a book in his lap, and his hair falling softly over his brow as he bowed his head to read. He looked totally unaware that he was even having his picture taken.

The third and fourth were fun shots, Darcy pulling a face on the Brooklyn Bridge, Bucky rolling his eyes in front of The Met, a look of indulgence on his face as Darcy made him pose.

Natasha smiled.

Darcy set the pizza pan on the counter and started digging around in drawers, muttering under her breath to herself. "I swear to God, Barnes, you hide this thing every time you put the damn dishes away…"

She smiled again.

The fifth photo, though, made her pause, for it was quite clearly recently added. Tony and Pepper's quaint B&B, the deck behind it, to be precise, where Natasha had stood during the wedding reception, unsure if she had the balls to go and look for Steve in the small gathering, therefore making it obvious there was something going on between them.

But this wasn't Tony and Pepper's wedding.

This was a photo of someone else's.

It was just the two of them, actually. They stood on that deck, their backs to the camera, and Natasha figured Tony probably snapped it while they had no idea he was lurking. Knowing Tony, he'd skulked around on purpose, eyes peeled for just the right shot and Starkphone set on silent, his newly-programmed camera program done up with the perfect lighting at just a tap.

Their arms were looped around each other, and Darcy's free hand was trailing her small bouquet of lilies against her leg. Her dress was a beautiful, simple slip of a thing, sort of in the mermaid style, with lace at the collar and sleeves, and pearl buttons up the back, just this side of old-fashioned.

Bucky's jacket was missing, and he was in a rare state of relaxed calm that Natasha knew very few people got to see.

They were looking out over the pond beyond the deck, and the Weeping Willow that swept over it, trailing its leafy tendrils in the water like little wishes.

Darcy's head was tipped onto his shoulder.

"I swear, you hide this thing just to piss me off, because you know I flirt better when I'm pissed off…" Darcy was still muttering, backtracking across the kitchen drawers she'd already checked.

Natasha felt a sharp pang in her chest, and flinched away from the photo, feeling a little like a trespasser in someone else's life, listening to Darcy berate someone who wasn't there, like he was already a phantom.

Swallowing thickly, and pushing down the urge to call Steve and tell him she loved him when the action would likely result in his answering in an irked tone, having just dropped a moving box, and she moved on.

Across the room was a long, low table, bridging the gap between the dining room and the living room, and on it was a single, clearly prized possession: a vintage turntable, still with its original lid, and a stack of LPs. On the very top, a copy of Rumors by Fleetwood Mac, the foxing around the edges showing its status as original issue.

Beside this was the mate of the other lounger with the ottoman in the living room set, pulled up so the view of the Manhattan skyline could be appreciated, a small round table beside it, still with a bottle of water and a bookmarked copy of the first _Harry Potter_ in paperback, clearly a copy more for reading and tossing in bags rather than the collector's editions on the shelf.

"Ah- _hah_!" Darcy finally declared, pulling out a shining pizza cutter and slamming the offending drawer shut. "Darcy: 1, Winter Soldier: 200."

Natasha smirked.

Clearly, even more than she had thought, this was a space shared by two people who had grown together, taken root in each other and settled there in a safe little, loving corner of the world.

It belonged to someone.

She crossed back to study the museum shot again, tipping the last of her Corona into her mouth and swishing it around for something to do. "He's a fan of the museum, huh?" she called across the empty living room.

Darcy looked up from the pizza, and smirked affectionately. "Oh, yeah. He's a total geek. Anytime there's down time and he gets restless. Think he likes that it's so quiet there. You can…I dunno, discover something new every time you go in." She paused, then cleared her throat, and went back to the pizza.

But Natasha had been in the business for too long and Darcy was her closest friend, apart from Steve; she couldn't be easily fooled and the emotion that strained her voice was clear as a bell. "Think maybe he feels…less _him_ …there."

She set the pizza cutter in the sink. "You know what I mean?"

Natasha nodded, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I think so."

((()))

Given that it was late afternoon on a Thursday, Tony wasn't particularly surprised when he was able to easily slide his Lamborghini into a space in front of the old 160 N Bleecker in the Village. He sighed as he hit the roof release button and looked around at his old stomping ground as the roof came back up over the car and secured itself over his head. The Huracan Spyder had been one of his more lavish purchases in the last few years, but he loved it—especially the matte black paint job he'd ordered immediately after delivery.

He hoped that taste in Italian supercars might come in handy for him today. Greenwich Village was largely quiet at the moment, most of the crowd in summer classes.

Even Café Wha?, where he'd seen The Velvet Underground on their last reunion tour, was quiet. He passed it by, nodded to a little old lady in hippie scarves and Doc Martins walking her Standard Poodle, and stopped in front of the address he was looking for.

177 North Bleecker was an imposing façade, that much was true. Its vast double doors were all iron and copper, shining dully in the low light of late afternoon and inscribed with various symbols Tony had no translation for, nor any care to understand. The whole idea of other dimensions, filled with other nameless beings intent on conquering Earth gave him even more nightmares than he already dealt with.

As it was, the whisperings of a few short months ago, of so-called Dark Dimensions and some freak named Kaecilius were whisperings he decidedly did not want to hear the details of.

He paused here, looking around. There was no doorbell. Was he just supposed to, uh…knock?

And as he looked back up, there appeared an old-fashioned doorknocker, with a lion's head and everything, the bit of the knocker clenched between its huge canines.

He jumped. "Okay, that was _not_ there before. You all saw it." He pointed, then glanced around him at the surrounding sidewalk.

He was alone.

" _And in the knocker, Marley's face_ ," he muttered. Shrugging, he lifted a hand and knocked, once, twice, three times, watching the low light of the slowly sinking sun glint off his wedding band and thinking of Bucky, unable to even wear his in the appropriate place.

There was a deep, basso profundo thunder from inside, and the doors slowly opened with a horror movie creak, ominous in the still silence within.

There was no one on the other side.

"Just saying," he told the dim foyer as he stepped within. "I don't come back, I've got a CEO and a really snarky PA that'll come after me with reckless abandon. Just letting you know."

There was no answer.

Sighing, he looked around. The foyer was really quite impressive, old mosaic tile on the floor and a magnificent grand staircase, polished banisters and all. He frowned, shrugged, and began jogging up it with a careless gait he didn't really feel.

The second floor was even more impressive, glass cases for miles, it seemed, with ancient relics in each one.

African and Inuit style masks.

Suits of armor.

Battle axes.

Swords.

Katanas.

Things he didn't have names for.

A nasty looking medieval suit of…something, hung on the wall near the front window looking over Bleecker, full of levers and odd catches that looked designed to hold a person hostage on their knees. It even had a fitting to cover the mouth.

"Kinky," he muttered, then turned on his heel and started down the only hallway he could see, curious what other chambers might be hidden.

For a few moments, he stood in front of three very strange windows indeed, each one playing a different scene: one a long stretch of desert that looked like a drift of the Empty Quarter; one a beautiful tropical beach complete with palm trees; and the third a beautiful deciduous forest with towering redwoods. There was a dial on the wall that his Engineer's fingers itched to turn, just to see what other delights could be discovered, but he backed slowly away before he could give in to the temptation and likely cause even more trouble.

With a sigh, he stuck his hands in his pockets and turned the corner into a smaller, darker chamber, to find a tall, rather imposing figure standing before the only light source in the room, a large, circular window with a weird symbol built into it to match the ones on the self-serve door.

Stephen Strange turned, slowly, and eyed him, but with the back light from the street, Tony couldn't see his face. "Tea, Mr. Stark?" He gestured toward a small kitchenette in the corner of the room, then gestured again, and a small lamp on a side table flared to life.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

The man came down off the raised dais of the window platform and into the room proper. "And thank you for not…fiddling with the viewer in the main gallery—I've got it set just right and if it's off by a fraction, the fractals won't align and then the mirrors don't work right, and…" He waved a hand. "It's a pain."

Tony blinked, looked back once over his shoulder toward the last hallway, then turned back again. "Right. Sure."

Steam started to pour into the air, then, over in the kitchenette, and with another wave, the entire set settled itself on a serving tray and made its way to the table set beside a chair in the center of the room. "Wong likes to mess with it; he knows it pisses me off," he continued, conversationally.

"Wong," Tony repeated, nodding. "Of course."

"A colleague." Stephen stopped behind the chair facing away from the window and the tray set down with a gentle tap. He gestured for the other chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Stark."

Tony did; the chair was much more comfortable than it had looked.

Strange handed Tony his cup and sat back, eyeing him with a wry smirk. "Trust me, Stark, a year ago, this all looked much stranger to me than it does to you."

Tony cocked his head. "You sure?"

He nodded. "Very."

Tony sipped, then blinked again, pleasantly surprised. "Good tea."

Strange gave him another small smile. "Nothing special. It's just tea—with a little honey." And then the smile turned inward, like he was enjoying a special little joke with himself, and Tony didn't pry by asking on it.

He had more tact than his wife gave him credit for, after all.

This was all very, very strange—and Tony had seen plenty of strange things, in the past few years particularly.

But random doorknockers, the self-serve door, the freaky windows to other places… They hadn't really made introductions—unless Tony was supposed to count the levitating tea tray as Strange's 'Hello, nice to meet you, I'm probably the next Sorcerer Supreme'—or whatever the hell they called it now.

Tony had no qualms, really. After all, he'd grown up an engineering prodigy and he had no problem understanding complex math, intricate scientific simulations, not to mention covering thermonuclear astrophysics in one night a few years ago.

But this. _This_ was new. This was crossing into a realm he didn't understand and still thought of in some corner of his mind as a genre firmly tucked on the bookshelf between Science Fiction and High Fantasy.

 _Levitating_ tea trays?!

"I freaked you out, didn't I?"

He blinked, looking back up to find Strange studying him with a look of apprehension. The gray hair at his temples suited him, lending an air of sophistication and knowledge to his carefully shorn hazelnut brunette. His eyes were a clear, clever blue and he wore a Van Dyke similar to Tony's, only his mouth was longer and thinner, adding an extra edge of…cruelness…to his mouth. No, not cruelness. It definitely spoke of wit, perhaps the arrogance from his past life that—if rumor had it—he'd firmly left there.

After all, he'd offered him tea, and he seemed fairly easygoing so far.

So Tony settled for a shrug. "I can roll with it."

Strange eyed Tony across the space. "What can I do for you, Stark? If it's helping you take care of Thor's not-so-sane brother, I'm afraid I'll…have to pass."

Tony smirked. "Uh, no. No. Something a little less…strange." He shrugged. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."

Strange raised a brow, but didn't otherwise comment on the pun—one he likely heard on a daily basis. "So…?"

Tony sighed, exceedingly uncomfortable. "I'm in need of your…expertise."

Stephen wiggled his fingers around in the air. "For?"

But Tony shook his head. "No, not _that_ expertise. The…other stuff."

This, finally, was something that seemed to take the sorcerer by surprise. He cocked his head and studied him, one eyebrow arched into his high, neat hairline. "You mean—"

"You were a neurosurgeon, right? Before…" He looked around, still uncomfortable. "…All this."

Strange, still peering at him, nodded. "Before I skipped my Huracan in the Hudson like a pebble, yes, I was."

"Right. Well, I need… _that_ expertise."

He blinked. "The Avengers need help from a…doctor." It wasn't a question, but more of a skeptical statement.

Tony nodded. "Right, yes."

He shifted in his seat. "Might I ask why?"

Tony sighed. This was the part he was dreading. "Um. Yeah, well, an old…friend of mine. He sort of…decided to…blow something up."

The sorcerer's eyebrows both shot up this time.

"And one of our team…isn't doing so hot."

Strange tilted his head and gave him a look from under his lashes. "Which one?"

Tony squirmed. "I don't know how much research you've done on—"

"Go ahead, Stark."

"The Winter Soldier," he blurted, all at once, desperate to just get it over with. "Barnes. He…he's been on our team for the past year and—"

"You want me to take a look at the brain of a super soldier." Again, less a question and more a statement, and while Tony was grateful he hadn't first gone after the whole, Russian HYDRA Assassin thing, he had to admit he was surprised.

And apparently, also, he was entirely transparent to this guy. "I'm hardly one to throw stones concerning someone else's past, Stark," Strange scoffed. "But, I have to admit, I don't know the first thing about super soldier physiology. What's the problem?"

A little more at ease now, Tony leaned back and heaved a sigh. "Seems like he cracked his head pretty hard. Skull fracture and a laceration along his brain stem."

Another raised eyebrow. "And he _survived_? Even a super soldier would be hard pressed to walk away from a force strong enough to crack his skull."

Tony set down his tea cup. "That's the thing—he… _didn't_."

Strange shifted again, throwing one leg over the other, and gave him _that look_.

"His…wife…has…abilities that are, as yet, unquantified," he finally managed, blinking. " _God_ , this is weird. Anyway. I was pretty banged up, and she managed to…pull the damage…out of me. Unfortunately—"

"She had nothing left for James Barnes?"

Tony blinked.

Strange smiled—his first true smile—and set his own cup down. "I have, in fact, been doing quite a bit of research, Mr. Stark. This is Darcy Lewis? The intern?"

He shifted, a bit ruffled at the idea that Darcy was 'intern' anything. "Well, she's my PA now. And she's…way too smart for all that, it's just that—up until now, of course—she was… _human_. Now she's…something else." He heaved another sigh. "Anyway, Bucky was…Bucky wasn't responding. No pulse. But she did…something to him. Brought him back. But he's been unresponsive ever since."

Strange nodded, frowning as he listened. "When was this?"

"Last week."

"I assume Banner has been in residence?"

Tony nodded.

"Any brain activity?"

"A lot. That's the thing we can't figure out. Darcy is…Darcy is…" He gave up.

But Strange nodded, his gaze glancing off the watch around his left wrist. "Having a hard time."

Swallowing, Tony nodded, then totally surrender, giving himself up to something he never did—beg. "She's…she's like my _kid_ , Strange. I can't just sit around anymore. And Buck's had enough shit to last _sixteen_ lifetimes, and Bruce is _totally_ out of his depth. I was hoping you'd come by and…take a look, any ideas you can spare might help."

"Fine."

Blinking, Tony jerked upright. "What?"

Strange nodded. "I said, 'Fine.' I'll stop by later. There are a few things I have to finish up here, a couple wards I've been meaning to put in place, and I'll stop by." He stood, and held out his hand.

Tony scrambled up to shake his hand. "Right. Great. Uh. Thanks."

They shook, and Tony—feeling incredibly unsure of his footing—went to leave.

"Oh, and Stark," Strange called just at the last moment.

Tony spun.

Stephen Strange smiled. "Nice Lambo."


	22. Chapter 22: Save Me

**Chapter 22** **: Save Me**

 **Summary:** **Getting to the heart of the matter.**

 **Notes:** **Hi guys! Not much to say this time, I thought I'd just leave this here. Finally getting into a rhythm with this one, so hopefully that's good. Also, I've got a few little tidbits of ideas for an upcoming Thanksgiving story. Let me know if you have any yourselves, maybe I can work some things in, little one-shot type deals. Seriously-I love hearing from you guys on what you really liked.** **Hope you enjoy!** **PS-Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Remy Zero, particularly on the soundtrack for Smallville. Remember that, guys?! Smallville! Ugh, God, that was, like, forever ago.** **Sarah**

((()))

The air conditioning thermostat kicking on woke Darcy from a patch of restless sleep around two in the morning. Really she was surprised she'd passed out at all. She'd been sleeping for shit since they got back, all in fits and starts, and trying not to fall asleep at her station in Tony's lab.

He scolded her fairly regularly over it, telling her in no uncertain terms to go home. She usually argued that she was fine and that he should shut up.

He usually did.

The fact that it had become routine over the past few days somehow made it all that much worse.

She'd tried turning the air down three times now, but JARVIS told her it was set by the 'Building Administrator' and she kept forgetting to ask Tony about it.

She was fucking _freezing_. Sighing, she tugged the blankets up higher and curled onto her slide, staring out the windows at the glowing signage of the skyscraper next door. It lit the room blue and red and for a moment, she imagined she could hear it buzzing in the silence.

And it was, too, it was so. Fucking. _Quiet_.

It occurred to her that, though Bucky was surprisingly unobtrusive, he had a loud presence—or maybe it was just loud to her because she was particularly _aware_ of him. Sometimes, she felt like a planet, orbiting the sun.

Was she supposed to expand into a Red Giant now, burning off her excess self in the aftermath of everything that had happened? Was she supposed to blaze until nothing was left of her but the white dwarf at her center, the weak core that made up her true self, directionless and with nothing to circle round?

Swallowing hard, she shoved the thought aside, trying to think about something else, but she wasn't sure how to _do_ that. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to be doing, or _how_ she was supposed to be doing it. She wasn't sure if there was something she was supposed to be setting in motion, or something she could do to fix it— _any_ of it.

The guilt of it all was so _heavy_. God, if this was even a _fraction_ of what he carried around on a daily basis—which she knew it was—she had no idea how he wasn't crushed beneath the weight of it. She was lucky—considering she'd never been one to believe in miracles—that no one else had been more seriously injured. A mild concussion, mild smoke burns, a few lumps, bumps, scratches and the like was what she considered getting off easy.

If she shut her eyes and concentrated, _hard_ , she could almost _feel_ him at her back, his body heat against her spine, the bed dipping under his comforting weight, his human arm curled around her middle, his palm flat against her belly. He'd press his forehead to the column of her neck, and sigh. He'd murmur some Russian term of endearment, or that he loved her. And slowly, his breathing would change and he'd sleep. And she'd lie awake for a while, listening to the sound of his peaceful slumber in the dark.

But his side of the bed was empty and cold.

Cursing under her breath at the tears pricking her eyes, she sat up and swung her legs over the side, sliding down from the high mattress and hissing at the icy floor. They really needed to get a thick, plushy area rug for beneath the bed.

They.

The word stuck in her mind.

So the majority of her brain was still in denial, then.

That was good.

She could work with denial. The tiny corner of her brain that was fearing the worst still hadn't done any irreparable damage to the larger section still certain they remained an 'us'.

The _doubt_ , though.

It crept in, stealthily, under the floor boards, stealing in under cover of darkness. It was whispering, but the whispers echoed in the hazy corners of her mind until they were shouting and she tried to drown them out running the shower in the bathroom and standing under the spray.

But it didn't work.

Most of the time, she thought she was pretty strong, tough, but malleable, to ease the way to bend, rather than snap.

But the strength she'd shored up during the past few months had been liquidated, and she fumbled now, good after so long practicing her ability to hide her suffering from others, but unable to hide it from herself.

She bowed under the pressure, vaguely surprised that she could still contain enough tears to cry her heart out under the spray and glad that if Tony had overridden the security lock on the cameras again, he wouldn't be able to hear her.

She was surrounded mostly by warm, wonderful people that cared for her, were worried for her, and supportive, tender and comforting, and trying so hard to help— _too_ hard.

And Darcy didn't think she'd ever felt quite so profoundly _alone_.

Anger took hold, and she slammed her hand into the tap, shutting off the water, and she stood there for a long moment, just breathing while she dripped, sopping wet, on the ceramic, staring at the small dent she'd made in the handle. " _Fucking bastard_ ," she snarled under her breath.

She was going to _kill_ Aldrich Killian.

 _He'd_ done this to her—to _them_ —to her _Jamie_.

She got out, letting the anger drive her as she got dressed again in jeans and one of his t-shirts, worn soft against her skin, let it drive her past her loneliness and the empty, aching fact that she hadn't been laid in _way_ too long, and let it drive her all the way to the door of the apartment—

Where she stopped, the anger dissipating all at once.

What was she going to do? Use her Spidey-Sense to track a mad inventor across the country and invade his hidey-hole?

She wasn't completely human anymore, but that didn't mean she was strong enough to take down an entire arm of a terrorist group by herself.

Refusing to acknowledge her growing sense of helplessness, she went over to the bookcase—studiously ignoring the picture frames hanging on the wall—and pulled out a book, one that he'd mentioned once was probably his favorite, then snatched the blue blanket from the ottoman, and left.

The halls were dark and quiet, and totally deserted. Thankful, she got in the elevator. "Hey, JARVIS?"

 _Yes, Ms. Darcy, where might I drop you?_ the butler asked, inferring that a lack of surname created the need to formalize her first one.

"The lab, please."

 _Of course. Is there any other way I might offer my assistance?_

She paused, eyes on the ceiling. Was a computer program seriously offering her support during a time of emotional upheaval? That was weird…and sort of…sweet? She couldn't help but smile. "No, J. Thanks, though."

 _Of course. The lab floor._ The doors slid open.

This hall was dark, too, the lab door closed. Darcy slid her card over the security panel and, with a beep, it admitted her. She went in, keeping the lights off and able to see quite clearly in the dark.

Bruce's adjoining office door was open and she went to make sure he was safely asleep— _elsewhere_. It was empty.

She stood for a long minute, beside the bed, listening to the soft, steady beat of the heart monitor in the dim quiet, confirming her suspicions for the past year—he had a strong heart, in more ways than one.

With a melancholy sigh, she pulled what had become her chair up close and sat down, and did something she'd found herself somehow unable to do much of since this all had started.

She looked at him.

 _Really_ looked at him.

Somehow, he looked like a stranger, his face soft and peaceful in sleep, and in a way that wasn't true sleep. She'd watched him sleep often enough over the past year, and somehow, this, here, looked different— _wrong_. She idly wondered if he'd looked like this while he'd been frozen—as though caught mid-animation, like someone hit 'pause', like he was about to move.

The urge to run her fingers through his hair was almost foreign and when she reached out to run her finger down the plates of his left arm, the metal was cool.

"You're supposed to wake up," she murmured. "Why aren't you waking up?"

The monitor didn't change.

She sighed. "We could play that game we usually play, the one where one of us uses the line that if the other one dies, we'll never forgive them. That's always fun."

It smelled vaguely like Bruce's cologne; she was suspicious he wore something trite, like Stetson. Trite, of course, only because he turned into a hulking green rage monster when he was upset.

"I'm not sure why I'm even…" With a self-deprecating smirk, she drifted off. "Maybe you can hear me." She swallowed, the heartache starting anew, sharper, now that she sat before him. A rogue tear escaped her lash line and rolled down her cheek; she didn't bother wiping it.

"I miss you," she whispered, her voice raw and cracked. "I miss you."

Nothing.

She looked down at her lap, where she was fidgeting with her ring. "I can't sleep. I'm not really eating. You'd be pissed at me." She laughed damply. "The apartment feels like this big, empty wasteland." She reached up to brush her hair behind her ear and saw her hand was shaking. "I'm sorry I haven't…stayed around that much. I can hardly…I can hardly stand to look at you like this." She took a deep, shaking breath, and cleared her throat. "You're…you're not supposed to be like this. You're supposed to be up and walking around, 'cause you're a super soldier and super soldiers are _really hard to knock down, and what's the point of you being a super soldier if a fucking bomb goes off because of your new wife and…"_

She swallowed and brushed the wetness off her cheeks. "I had no idea a person could produce this much moisture from their _face_. I feel like a wussy Valley Girl, crying at the drop of a hat."

 _Emotional turmoil is something everyone experiences_ , JARVIS suddenly cut in.

She jumped, gawking at the ceiling in awe. Was this some new setting Tony had installed for her benefit?! If so, she was going to have a few _words_ for him in the morning.

 _It is nothing to be ashamed of. Would you like me to summon Mr. Stark to provide comfort?_

She took another breath. "This would be funny under other circumstances," she muttered. "I'm sure of it." She raised her voice. "No, JARVIS. Thank you. You're…very kind," she fumbled.

 _Of course._ And he fell silent.

She shook her head. "I, um. I brought _Gatsby_." She shrugged. "Not sure why. Reading was sort of…a thing. With us." Her cheeks flaming, she pulled it out from under the blue blanket and set it on the bed beside his metal arm.

Where the fingers of his hand curled into a fist, very slowly.

She jumped again, lunging up out of the chair as she stared.

And very slowly, they unfurled and relaxed again at his side, falling still.

Moving cautiously, as though any sudden movements might break whatever spell was in play, she stepped back up to the bed and tugged her chair in again. "Jamie?"

Nothing.

"Baby…?"

He was totally still. The heart monitor hadn't even interrupted its pattern.

She sighed and sat back down, tugging the blanket over her lap. "You're such a tease." She picked up the book and flipped it open. She hadn't read _Gatsby_ in years, since she'd read it as a freshman in college, weeping her way through it. It was near the top of her list, too, up there with _To Kill A Mockingbird_. The only two classics she'd ever voluntarily read. "I feel like you can hear me. So…I'm gonna read. Okay?"

Nothing.

She shook her head. "Jerk." And she turned to page one.

((()))

Tony left early the next day, not saying much to her, but instead choosing the subtlety of giving her a long, drawn-out hug as he slipped out around one.

Darcy finished up the last of her filing and followed his lead, poking her head out of the lab and spying down the hallway in both directions for any well-intentioned souls looking to cheer her up. She was surrounded by plenty of support, but she'd never been the type of person to accept help when offered. Since she'd left home and gotten out from under her idiot father's thumb, the very last thing she was okay with doing was allowing others to offer their shoulders to cry on.

She was perfectly capable of crying on her own shoulder—all alone, in secret, away from prying, judgmental and/or smug eyes.

Bucky had quickly grasped that, and learned that when he deemed she needed support—whether she stubbornly admitted it or not—he just had to _force_ it on her. And he was so efficient, she usually relented, and all at once, too, finally realizing about herself what he had seen all along—that she wasn't so strong as to be impenetrable.

Intuitiveness had been a super power he'd had all his life, then; it wasn't something he'd acquired after his…transformation.

She stood in the hallway for almost five minutes, risking discovery while she debated whether or not she had the balls to trip upstairs for a pair of sneakers, her eyes on the doorway to Jane's lab.

Which was how she ended up hiking uptown in her black Jimmy Choo heels and tube skirt, plucking her peach, silk cowl neck tank away from her collar in the New York heat.

She'd be damned if the threat of sore arches would be enough to expose her to more ridicule from Foster or Hill—or even Wanda, who had made herself noticeably distant since her friend's elopement. Darcy wasn't certain what to make of it, but she sure as hell wasn't about to seek out an answer. She was too proud for that, and her dignity told her that she didn't need anyone anyway, as long as she had Bucky. And Tony. And Steve and Nat, who never— _never_ —passed judgment of any sort, _whatsoever_.

She sighed, glancing at the street signs and rolling her eyes when she saw she was only to Fifty-Sixth and Park. When she'd left, she'd bravely told herself that it wasn't that far between Park and the Midtown Courthouse, not far at all.

And it wasn't, really—unless you were in six-hundred dollar Jimmy Choos. They'd been a splurge gift to herself a few months ago, something she'd been wanting to do for a while. But the famous designer hadn't exactly _designed_ his heels with a lot of _walking_ in mind. It was her fault, after all. She'd been dreading running into Hill, or Bruce, or—God forbid— _Jane_.

She'd run into her a few times since Jane's serious attempt at an apology the previous week, and Darcy had found herself totally incapable of looking her former friend in the face. She'd merely brushed past her like she'd barely been there, blocking the hallway, and as she'd stalked off, she'd been able to hear Maria's voice in the doorway, muttering to the astrophysicist under her breath. No doubt, they were discussing how to handle Tony's PA once she was a widow.

But she'd swallowed— _hard_ —and straightened her back as she turned into the lab, a few choice words for them both snapping into place in her mind about just what the two of them could go and do.

She comforted herself, in the evenings, when the apartment was cold and still, that if Bucky were awake, he'd bark something snappy that would shut them both up for weeks, using his reputation to his advantage, blocking hallways so they'd be forced to skirt around him, glaring daggers with those Winter Soldier eyes of his until they looked away, giving ground.

It was funny, really. He was a _total_ Alpha Male when he really wanted to be. It was just that he so rarely wanted to, unless he was defending her.

She was exhausted. No one had any clue as to why Bucky still slept. And Bruce was settling into a pattern now, changing out this tube or that cord, and Darcy could hardly stand it.

He was breathing.

He'd moved— _barely_ —but he'd moved. Bruce had run a full gambit of tests the next morning, after she'd told them about the occurrence, but all to no avail.

He was in limbo, and there was no sign at all that he was on his way out.

She was hanging on by her fingertips, keeping a stolid face during the day, and falling into a dim puddle of despair at night, when no one could see, reading until her eyes were screaming to keep herself distracted before crying her heart out in the shower and crawling into bed and shivering all night. She was largely sleepless, or plagued with strange dreams where she appeared to be moving from room to room in a mansion she'd never been in before, dimly lit, with voices in the distance and flickers of movement only in the corners of her eyes. She'd wake, bleary with a headache, slam down some coffee, and go straight to the lab, hiding from anyone and everyone who wasn't Tony until it was time to leave again. Tony had taken to giving her space, peppered with long moments of worried staring.

She was on autopilot, and she knew it.

"Hey, gorgeous."

She jumped, yanked from her grim thoughts by a low voice behind her. She whipped around, catching herself up on her left Jimmy Choo, to find a young man leaning against the façade of a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, one of many that New Yorkers seemed to assume they were famous for. Darcy had never understood that.

He was likely about her age, but looked younger, and with his shaggy blond hair and Justin Bieber cheeks, it was only too apparent he thought he was spectacular.

The number of blonds Darcy had really noticed since discovering the opposite sex were few and far between, and she looked at him wryly, then looked again.

His green eyes held on her, a little narrowed, a little cunning. He had cheeks too round to cut glass, and a weak jaw, a dimple in his chin, and swept bangs that nearly had her rolling her eyes. Combined with his slouched designer jeans and bejeweled crucifix t-shirt, it was fairly clear that he was trying _way_ too hard.

But she'd learned with Daniel; she kept her face flat and noncommittal. "Excuse me?"

He smiled a little half smile he probably meant to look charming, but really just came off as suggestive and cocky. "I called you gorgeous."

So sensitive and embarrassed by the average compliment, she felt heat glow in her cheeks. "Uh. Thanks," she muttered, looking up the street. She'd wanted to make this a quick and painless trip. She straightened her Kate Spade on her shoulder and started off again.

"Hey!"

She sighed, rolling her eyes, but kept walking as the sound of pounding, much-too-expensive Nikes thundered up behind her on the pavement. Heels, fine. Sneakers? No.

"Hey!" he said again as he caught up to her and fell into step beside her. "Where you going, babe?"

She flinched at the familiar endearment. It wasn't one Bucky used that often, but it always sent a little wave of longing trailing down her back when he did. " _Babe_?" she repeated. "A little presumptuous, don't you think?"

He didn't reply to the comment. "Where you off to in such a hurry?"

She kept walking, listening to the staccato of her heels on the pavement against the general backdrop of Manhattan's usual din: car horns, the white noise of traffic, people yelling, cab drivers bellowing at each other. "The courthouse." Then, feeling brave, she added, "What's it to ya?"

He chuckled, like they were fast friends and his flirting was wildly successful so far. "Well, you look lonely, walking all by yourself. Why don't you let me accompany you?"

She snorted, glancing over at him. He was just her height—in her heels. " _'Accompany'_ me?"

He shrugged, smirking.

"Not to sound like a bleating feminist, but you hear how misogynistic that sounds, right?"

He looked at her sideways, the smile slipping. "Just a guy trying to be a gentleman."

"Ah." She nodded. "Is _that_ what this is?" She smiled. "Because I know a handful, and, uh…that's not something any of them would say."

He snickered, switching around to walk backwards. "Well, maybe they wouldn't _say_ it," he offered.

She shook her head, pausing at the corner of Fifty-Eighth to wait for the walk sign, like so few people in the neighborhood—she had no desire to get smacked by a speeding cab. She'd lived through far too much comic book garbage to die by taxi. "That's the point, though. You see what I'm saying?"

He just shrugged, slouching beside her.

She sighed, quickly tiring of his false, _King Joffrey_ attitude. "Look, do you need something? Can I help you? I'm a little busy, and while I'm _slightly_ flattered, I'm, uh… _definitely_ not in the market."

The light turned and she started to cross.

He jumped after her. "Well, why not?"

She snorted again, sorely tempted to begin listing the reasons off on her fingers, if only to dissuade him with what would surely sound like silly fairy tales to him. _Metal arms? Yeah, right, lady, tell me a real story_. "Because the ring on my left hand is particularly heavy," she said instead.

He laughed again, nodding and giving her that sly smirk again. "Yeah, like a ball and chain?"

She laughed with him, but it was more like mockery than anything else. "More like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy." Even _she_ couldn't deny the extreme appeal of some well-placed, old-fashioned romance.

He gave her a blank stare, then tripped over a rut in the sidewalk. "Who?"

She sighed. "Buddy, seriously, I'm on my way somewhere, so if you don't need anything, I doubt you can do better than a three-carat diamond, okay?"

He slouched further, which seemed a bit of a feat, seeing as he was still keeping pace with her. When she'd taken Tony's job offer, he'd warned her about his pace through press conferences and the assorted miscellaneous gatherings. Darcy, naturally buoyant and looking for a breezy time, had absolutely no problem keeping up with him. Sometimes, the press had a hard time keeping up with _her_ …One online article had even deemed her _Stark's Hoofing Handler_. Tony had been miffed it compared her to a certain cloven animal. "Well, why you gotta be like that?"

She finally paused halfway to Fifty-Ninth. "Dude, I just told you I was taken. And, quite frankly, your Belieber act is starting to grate a little, alright? I do not need this in my life right now."

For a moment, she was worried she'd spoken too harshly—Lord knew, sometimes she had a shitty filter.

But he took the opposite approach. " _I_ _know_ what you need in your life right now."

Growling under her breath, she started away again. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

He bounded right after. "You think I look like The Biebs?"

She turned to face Fifty-Ninth and waited for the light. " _Not_ a compliment, dude."

"So you like the blond babes, huh?"

She shrugged, plowing ahead at the signal. "Usually, old men catch my eye…"

He jerked to a stop in the middle of fifty-ninth and Park. " _What_?"

She snickered, but kept walking, leaving him behind.

Still gaping, he jumped and lunged after her with a screech of tires and a loud, prolonged honk, followed by foreign curses flung out a window in what sounded like Arabic.

She chuckled. "Don't piss off cab drivers…" she muttered under her breath.

"Well, _I_ can show you a better time than some old fogey," he said when he finally caught up to her at the opposite corner.

She smirked, her mind skittering over that first night with him, breathless and alive—and _oh, so satisfied_. Of the _boneless_ variety. "I _sincerely_ doubt it."

But he surprised her and slid his arm across her shoulders. "Bet I could change your mind," he whispered, his breath in her ear reeking of stale cigarette smoke.

She cringed away, picking up the pace. Just a few more blocks to Midtown. "You realize you're becoming a fiction trope, right?"

He did not drop his arm. "Huh?"

She sighed. "And you're not too bright, either."

That encouraged him to drop it. "Okay, _now_ you're starting to be mean."

"Because you can't take a _hint_. Do I need to foist the Stark Industries lawyers on you, or what?" Even as she said it, she knew Tony would call them in a _heartbeat_ if this guy so much as _looked_ at her cross-eyed. For a guy who claimed he was missing any paternal genes, he sure was awfully paternal.

 _God_ , she loved him. Him and his goofy, yellow-tinted glasses and his pressed Armani suits and his obscure jokes that the press always blinked stupidly at.

"Stark? Like, _Tony_ Stark? Like, _Iron Man_ , Tony Stark?"

She shook her head. "Boy, you catch on real quick, don'tcha?"

He stared. "So…are you, like, part of the Avengers, like, _team_ , or something?! That is _so_ _hot_."

"My husband would _love_ to hear you say that." Enter Bucky, cringing in her mind's eye.

He stuck out a hand. "Wait, lemme guess! Captain America?!"

She snorted out a bright burst of laughter, her first in a while. " _Hah_! The irony of that is _hilarious_."

He squinted a frown. "Why?"

"Because his _actual_ wife could kill you with her pinky finger."

Contrarily, his face lit up. "Really?!"

She could finally see the courthouse ahead, people milling around in front of the entrance, the glint of light against the pavement where it refracted off the copper and brass of the revolving doors. She picked up the pace even further, her heels click-clacking, an image of Bucky flashing through her mind as he watched her cross the hardwood floor of their kitchen in the morning. He'd sit in front of the windows, there, in the sunlight for his yoga and meditation, but he'd inevitably get distracted when she came out—freshly showered, her face on, her hair in a curtain down her back—for her coffee. She'd look over at him to find him watching her, one eyebrow raised, his eyes on her calves and those Jimmy Choos, a little smirk curling one corner of his mouth.

And she'd wink, grab her coffee, and leave, shouting that she loved him over her shoulder and that Tony had a meeting across town that afternoon and that, knowing traffic, he'd be on his own for dinner.

And she'd come in late, after eight usually, carrying those same heels, her hair long-since tossed into a ponytail, to find him at the stove. She'd stand in the doorway, blinking in surprise.

And he'd return the wink, pop the cork on a bottle of wine, and they'd eat.

She wondered how long he could continue to surprise her.

" _Wait_!" Justin Bieber was back, chasing after. "Seriously—you wanna get dinner later?"

She stopped— _again_ —the entrance to an alley behind her, nice cool air wafting from the shadows against her back to dry the sweat rolling beneath her bra hook. "Look." She held out her left hand. "You see this ring? This ring is almost like dimorphism in other species. It's meant to communicate that I'm not looking for a mate because _I already have one. Do you understand_?" She made sure to speak slowly so as not to have to repeat herself.

All that did was entice him closer and he sidled up, trapping her between him and the brick of the walk-up behind her. "I dunno what 'dimorphism' means, babe, but we can still have fun. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Right?" And he folded his hand around her forearm, smiling.

Heat beginning to glow in her chest, she smiled and folded her own hand around the offending wrist. "But _I'll_ know. And what _I_ don't do to you, _he'll_ certainly finish— _his_ fist is one you don't want it your face."

A low growling sound hummed behind her and they both jumped—his grip, of course, not swayed in the least—to look behind, into the mouth of the alley.

A small dog was perched on a cardboard box, weather-beaten and mildewed from the elements. He was young, likely still a puppy, judging by his floppy ears. But he looked less than thrilled at their display.

"C'mon. Let's just go have some fun, huh?" He tugged on her arm.

But she clung on tight to his wrist, calling up whatever _thing_ was living inside her, until her hands were bright. "You don't seem to understand English, _Junior_. This girl ain't helpless, and though it might sound like a total trope, my husband will _hunt you down_ and do _vicious_ things to you if you so much as _bruise_ me—he is not Captain America, and I think you'll find he's a lot _scarier_."

The idiot smirked condescendingly. "Oh? Is Hawkeye gonna shoot my eye out?"

She grinned. "Oh, he probably would, if I asked him to—but not before the _Winter Soldier_ got to you."

He paled, making it clear that there were still whisperings of the DC debacle online.

The dog continued to growl.

She cocked her head and gave him a considering look. "How long do you think it would take him to pull all your limbs off, one by one?"

He swallowed. "The—"

"I'd wager…less than ten seconds."

He spluttered. "But you can't just threaten peop—"

But she shook her head. "Oh, that wasn't a threat, not really. Just a warning." And with a last yank at her power, she felt her hands tremble with heat.

With a tingling zap, he was thrown back and away, and landed on his ass on the New York pavement.

The dog barked, leaping off his cardboard box and standing guard at the mouth of the alley like a Beefeater.

A few people still tooling around the courthouse entrance stopped to watch, mouths open. Darcy scanned for recording phones and found none. After all, it had happened fairly quickly.

"You _saw_ that!" her friend shouted at them, gesturing wildly at her. "She—she _harassed_ me! Lady, I don't know what you are, but you're a _freak_!"

With a few amused chuckles, those bystanders went right back to their lives.

Darcy smiled. "Oh, I know. I live in a building full of them. It was only a matter of time, really."

"You stay away from me!"

Sighing and rolling her eyes, she click-clacked away on her heels, slipping into the courthouse without a backward glance and shaking out the sensation in her hands as she went. "Idiot."

Conversely, the woman at the counter was nice. They both shared a knowing look and mirrored each other's eye rolls at the woman behind her on her phone, telling the entire lobby about her well-endowed new boyfriend, while she drew up the forms Darcy would need. "Good for you, honey," she said, shaking her head.

Darcy looked at her. "I'm sorry?"

Her printer beeped. "Changing your name. Good for you, girl. So many of the ladies nowadays, they don't like doing it, think it takes away their identity." She waved a hand at the window between them. "And I ain't arguing that, you know? Not really. But I always thought it was romantic, you know? My Warren, I'd have sooner divorced that man than keep my own name, you know what I'm saying?"

Darcy, getting a bit uncomfortable, shrugged. "Well. I've got no pride about mine, really, so I figure I might as well. Unexpected advantage, really, I guess. I wasn't really thinking about it at first—but I hate my father, so why not take this opportunity to get rid of his name, right?"

The woman started laughing—guffawing, really—and slapped a hand down on the counter. "That's right, honey. You tell that bastard. You say, "Look, pops! I found a _real_ man—take down a few notes", _amIright_?"

The woman behind her in line was still going on about her boyfriend with his huge package.

"That's sorta how it shook out, yeah."

The woman—'Roberta', said her name tag—slid the forms under the window. "You have a good day, sweetie. You tell that hunk I said 'hi'."

Darcy smiled and took the papers from the slit beneath the window. "I will. Thanks."

"You're welcome, honey! NEXT!"

Shaking her head, Darcy folded the sheets and slid them into her Kate Spade—another splurge when she'd seen Tony's first paycheck—and went through the revolving door, back out onto the melting New York sidewalk.

She glanced around, but saw no sign of her boy-band friend. So, with a sigh of relief, she started back the way she'd come.

But as she passed the mouth of that alley, there came a sound of rustling paper and a soft whine. She stopped in her tracks. "I can't bring you back to the Tower…"

The dog was back on top of the box, looking at her with its head cocked. German Shepherd, Darcy thought, with large, chocolatey eyes and huge ears, one standing straight up, the other flopped lazily over on itself.

Her heart tugged. She'd always _loved_ dogs.

"I _seriously_ can't. The Boss Man doesn't want any animals in the building—it's, like, Rule Number Eight, dude, I can't even have a _hedgehog_ …Who doesn't like hedgehogs, right?"

He cocked his head the other way.

He had no collar.

His fur was shaggy and matted, and he looked like he was limping off one paw, the left one held folded above the ground.

A stray. Just _looking_ at his cute little face was painful.

She'd taken in a stray one _single_ time before. He'd had wounded eyes, too. Was just a little rough around the edges. Looking just a little lost…

It had been the _best decision she'd ever made in her entire life_.

She sighed. "God damn it, already." And she patted her thigh. "C'mon! C'mon, sweetie!"

Looking, she could swear, like the happiest dog in the world, he hopped down off the box and came trotting over to her without a trace of hesitation. She scratched at his head to find that fur super soft beneath the frayed bits. "Maybe Tony won't kill me. You gotta kill him with kindness, though, okay, dude?! You gotta be _super_ cute."

He gave a soft little bark of agreement.

Not quite certain she wanted to risk what might be climbing through his flattened fur, she stuffed him neatly in her bag and took off.

Her feet were _killing_ her something fierce by the time she reached the Tower, and she breezed in, glancing around the lobby to check for suspicious people—or Tony. She ducked into the elevator and hit the button for their floor. "We'll get you a bath, first thing—but you're gonna have to make do with some old Herbal Essences in the bath tub, okay?" Good thing she'd kept some of the old dog-grooming stuff from their last pooch, when she was a kid.

 _Miss Darcy_ —

"Ugh, God, JARVIS, gimme ten business days, okay, and you can call me something else, since you absolutely _have_ to follow court records!" she snapped, frazzled.

There was a distinct pause. Then—

 _Miss Darcy, you are aware that Mr. Stark does not approve of domesticated dogs in the building proper, are you not?_

She took a deep, deep breath. "Yeah, well, he's gonna make an exception." She shifted to hold him tighter as he squirmed, but he whined when she pressed on that right paw, confirming that there was something wrong with it. "I'm sorry!"

She threw herself—almost _literally_ —across the hall and into their apartment, the dog crying softly in her arms, praying not to run into Tony the entire time.

She slammed the door behind her and stood there a moment, staring around, knocked breathless all over again at the aching familiarity of their empty suite. Totally empty. He always got up when she came in, if he beat her home, like a gentleman, taking her coat before she could even catch her breath, kissing her cheek and calling her 'Babe'. If it was reversed, he always set down whatever he was carrying—files for an op, his gym bag—and crossed to where she was curled up on the couch to kiss her, his expression softening into warmth. He always gravitated toward her, came into her orbit, like she was a balm after a hard, chilly day.

But she was alone.

In fact, his duffel was still packed on the carpet beside the couch, where Tony had set it last week and where it had remained, Darcy too terrified to unpack it. She knew it would have his smell all over it, clean soap, the metallic tint of gunpowder in her nostrils. That, and, part of her was scared that unpacking it might break whatever spell was at work, that putting all his things back would make it all real, would trigger the endgame.

She swallowed, thickly, and set the puppy on the hardwood, where he wobbled, looking uncertainly around the space. Then she tossed her bag on the recliner and finally— _finally_ —peeled off the cursed Jimmy Choos, first off one throbbing foot, then the other, where they had become practically _adhered_.

The memory of last New Year's Eve flitted through her head, Bucky finally taking off her heels, clucking his tongue at the bruise on her ankle. The little cozy tent they made with the white cotton sheets, tucked away, in their own world, just the two of them.

She cleared her throat to expel the cramping tears there, and focused on the task at hand.

Dog.

She'd brought a dog home.

Oh, God, Tony was going to _kill_ her. Like, actually _murder_ her.

It wasn't that he didn't like animals—he just didn't like their potential mess. He was a snob that way—if someone was going to make a total mess of the place, it was going to be _him_ , damn it.

 _Miss Darcy_ —

"Shut up, JARVIS," she snapped again, glaring at the ceiling. "Seriously."

The puppy took a step, wobbled, then took another, and promptly face-planted on the hardwood, his left paw sliding out from under him. His back legs scrambled, and he wind-milled on the floor for a moment, whimpering.

She crouched down by him. "Oh, puppy, it's okay." She scooped him up and turned him to face her, baby-talk already making her buoyant. "You put on a good show with our nasty playboy earlier, didn't you? But you're all hurt-y inside."

He whimpered again, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Just like someone else I know." She bopped him softly on the nose. "He's hurt-y inside too—but he's less fuzzy than you are."

His tongue poked out and he kissed her on the nose.

She smiled. "Should we get you a bath, little dude?"

He started wiggling and huffing, his little mouth open in an enthusiastic smile.

Warmth spread through her chest. "Okay, then. First a bath. Then we'll introduce you to Grandpa Tony and force him to fall in love with you, okay?" She looked him over more thoroughly, then sighed. "Then a vet appointment, a trip to the barber…" She did a double-take. "Gotta get you fixed too. Sorry, but snip-snip. It's only responsible, right?"

He continued to wiggle in response as she wandered down the hall to the master bath.

"We'll have to take a trip to the pet store, too, little guy." She set him down on the tiled floor and bent over the tub, turning the knobs until it was a nice, warm temperature. "And then—"

She turned to find him growling at a ribbon that was sticking up from the blue throw rug she kept in front of the vanity, his gravelly voice high and not threatening in the least.

A giggle escaped before she could stop it, and she stared at him in awe at the fact that he'd unwittingly drawn it out of her, the first in days. "C'mon, goofball. Bath time."

They made rather a mess, between his splashing and shaking, and her with the detachable shower head, but soon, he was clean. She called the nearest vet and made an appointment in a slot the next day that someone had cancelled, and plunked him in her bag again, heading off to the store.

She had a good time picking out bowls and a collar, a little plushy bed, some training pads and other assorted doggy things.

She'd take any distraction where she could get it.

But she tripped up on a name.

She stared at him the entire evening long. And he stared back from the other end of the couch, blinking at her and holding up his leg.

Finally, he hobbled the distance of two expansive cushions and settled into her lap, nuzzling her thigh. Her heart throbbed and she gathered him close in her arms, not bothering trying to push the tears down again. It was pointless, and she figured if she cried so much the salty waves washed her away, it might not be such a bad thing. She squeezed him closer.

He whimpered softly, and tugged on his left leg.

Very gently, she turned it over. But there was nothing to be seen. No markings, no cuts, no lacerations. She frowned. "Hm. Did you break it, honey?"

He began to cry at her attention to it.

She sighed, thinking hard, but didn't let it go. "What are the odds this works?" she asked him aloud, though she wasn't sure why.

She gathered him even closer, closed her left hand gently around his leg, and closed her eyes. She found it easily this time, recharged as it seemed to be, at her very core, that small place deep, deep in there where she usually hardly dared. It was usually the place where she stuffed all her doubt: doubt about herself and her abilities, doubt about Jamie and the Winter Soldier, doubt about Jane. Hatred lived there, too—the pure, unadulterated kind that most people pretended wasn't there in them. Frustration over her parents, particularly her father. And there, the deepest, darkest well—the tiny place where she kept everything she felt for Bucky. That place scared her sometimes, mostly because no matter how she searched it, she had yet to find the bottom. It made her feel almost intolerably vulnerable.

But she had no real clue, yet, how the _something_ inside her really worked, and so she did the only thing she could think to do—she tugged. She pulled gently on the whatever-it-was, plucking at it like a thin hem on an old t-shirt of Bucky's that she often slept in, well-worn until it was buttery against her skin, the musky, masculine smell of him lingering on the cotton just enough to put her to sleep.

And it responded easily this time, welling up like blood in a shallow cut, pooling in her belly and responding by pulling— _hard_ —on her heart, or the space where she thought her heart _used_ to be.

It raced beneath her sternum, though, pumping sharply until its own echo rushed up to meet that of the small, helpless creature in her arms.

The rhythms joined until they were one and the same, the sensation increasing, suction in her chest like a vacuum, until it was a harsh, ragged pain, and with a burst of effort, she let go, gasping loudly in the silent living room, the ceiling spinning above her as she and the dog collapsed backward from each other.

Catching her ragged breath, she jerked upright.

The puppy blinked at her, eyes wide, then stood and hopped down off the couch, no problem at all, landing easily on all fours.

He turned in a quick, tight circle, then again, yipping at her happily and gifting her with a wide-mouthed puppy smile.

She found herself lost somewhere between awe and fear.

What had she just done?

And what did it mean? What _else_ could she do?

After all, what had Bruce said to her a couple weeks ago? That he didn't know what she'd done, but she'd restored Bucky. Somehow. Some way. Even though it had almost killed her.

All she knew was that when Steve had set down his best friend, Darcy had detected no pulse. No heartbeat. He'd been still as stone, ominously so.

As far as Darcy understood it, he'd been at least a little bit…dead.

She flinched, just thinking the word.

But he wasn't now.

Because of whatever she'd done.

Bring back the dead.

((()))

"Don't. Freak. Out," she called as she peeked around the corner to Tony's lab the next afternoon.

There was a short pause. "What did you do?"

Very slowly, she hefted Max—as she'd taken to calling him—into the doorway, staying hidden herself, for the moment.

Another short pause. Then—

"No."

She huffed, hauling them both into the room and over to her workstation. "Boss Man—"

"Don't call me Boss Man. It won't work," Tony quipped from behind his computer, eyeing up the dog in her arms like it had personally offended him. "You know what I said—If somebody's makin' a mess in my building, it—"

"Better be you," she finished, rolling her eyes. "Yes. I know. But I was out yesterday, and—"

" _Out_?" he interrupted, scowling. "Why were you out?"

She paused and gave him a look. "I'm suddenly not allowed off the premises?"

He slumped, rolling his eyes. "I don't think it's smart while there are crazy scientists after you."

She narrowed her eyes at him, Max squirming in her lap. "Speaking as one of them, Tony?"

He just gave her a look. "Why were you out?"

"I had to go to the courthouse, and—"

"The courthouse?" he interrupted again. "For what?"

She sighed. "I'm not gonna finish this story, am I? I needed the paperwork for a name change. I'm not walking around with 'Lewis' as a tag when 'Barnes' is perfectly nice, thank-you-very-much."

His face softened. "Short Stack…"

But she barreled right past the squishy feelings. "So I walked uptown. And this asshole kept trailing after me, thought he was really something."

His eyes flickered in that telltale look of ruffled feathers and he opened his mouth again.

But she cut him off this time. "And I _landed him on his ass_. But this little dude"—she held him up as he wiggled—"was there to provide backup." She sighed. "And he looked so sad and he's so skinny, so I brought him home. I mean, his leg was broken and everything, I think."

Unfortunately, he latched right onto it. " _'Was'_?"

She looked down at him in her lap, feeling her cheeks flush with heat, and swallowed.

Tony wasn't stupid—far from it. He sighed and stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "So I can assume that whatever mojo you're working is cross-species capable, then?"

Suddenly, there came a racket from the next office over and Bruce appeared in the adjoining doorway, breathless, his hair mussed and his glasses just a little bit crooked. "You healed something non-human?!"

Tony gestured like Vanna White. "Behold: Stray Mutt, miraculously healed."

"His name is Max," Darcy offered, weakly. She wasn't sure why she'd landed on Max—after all, it was just so unoriginal. But it had slipped out the night before—when he had absolutely refused to sleep in his doggy bed and had let out little huffing barks until she hauled him up onto the bed with her—and he'd seemed responsive to it, using her chest like a springboard and nuzzling into her neck.

It was weird. She figured he had been someone's pet—just long enough, and just old enough to grasp some training—and had slept straight through the night, gotten up with her that morning, done his business on the pad, ate like a champ, and sat watching her get ready.

Talk about luck. She remembered how hard it was, training a new dog; the one she'd had as a child had been a handful.

She wondered if he'd take to Bucky. Some dogs were weird like that around men; and Bucky was definitely of the Alpha Male variety.

Bruce stared. "What was wrong?"

She sighed. "Well, I was heading uptown—"

"I heard that part, Darce, it's okay," he interrupted her. "What happened after that?"

"Well, he kept whining, but I couldn't see anything on his paw. No lacerations, it wasn't real swollen or anything. So I figured it must be broken, you know?"

He nodded.

"So I just…" She shrugged. "I just…took it in my hand, and…" She drifted awkwardly off.

But he pressed, reaching up to straighten his glasses. " _And_?"

She shrugged again, feeling that heat in her cheeks. "I…I _dunno_!" she folded, gesturing. "I don't know what I did! I don't know what I did to _you_!" She gestured to Tony. "And I don't…I don't why it…didn't work with—"

" _Didn't work_?!" he interrupted again, this time reaching up to take his glasses off. "You don't think what you did _worked_?!"

She let herself be cowed slightly, exhausted, though the night before, snuggled up to the warm dog, she'd slept better—if marginally so—than she had in weeks. "Well. He's just…lying there."

" _Alive_ ," he finished for her, giving her an incredulous look.

"But, why—"

"Darcy, super soldier, or not, you understand that Bucky should be _dead_ , right?!"

She flinched, hard.

Tony sighed, holding out his hands. " _Okay. Okay_ , let's all back up for a minute. We're in uncharted territory, here, okay. So let's just… _breathe_."

It wasn't every day that Tony Stark played peacekeeper.

Bruce took a step back, looking down. "Sorry. I…got a little...passionate."

She nodded, hugging Max close.

The dog snuffled against her shoulder and tucked his nose between her arm and body.

Bruce tried again. "Darcy. I treated his injuries. I looked at his scans, and his scar tissue and…even someone with the serum would be killed by the blow he received. He must've been struck from behind, and by a pretty massive boulder of concrete. You couldn't see it at the time, but his skull was…" His voice softened and he leaned on the doorjamb. "Darcy…Darcy, when Steve brought him to you, there's no doubt…he was dead."

She studied Max's fur determinedly. "I know," she said, unable to project anything above a whisper, and trying desperately not to get lost—yet again—in the deep mire of that endless moment. She still woke up gasping at night, her mouth dry, her hands shaking, her heart racing, the image of him, gray and dead in her mind's eye. The longest, darkest moment of her life. It still stuck to her like swamp muck, pulling her down, and in those weak moments, crying in the shower, she wondered what she would've done if…if she wasn't a fucking _necromancer_.

"So whatever you did…even if you don't _understand_ it…you saved his life, Darcy."

With a yip, Max wriggled and jumped down, out of her lap, slip-sliding on the floor and treadmill-ing until he'd breezed past Bruce and cut across into the medical lab.

She lunged up out of her chair. "Max?! _Hey_!" She did her best impression of Tom Cruise as she slid through the doorway on her slip-on flats—

And stopped dead at the sight before her.

Bucky was still there, and still unconscious.

But Max had curled up at his side on the bed and had lain his head down on his metal shoulder. As she stared, he looked up at her with wide eyes and cuddled closer.

The two guys appeared at her back.

"Guess that answers that question," she muttered out loud. He'd taken to Bucky as though he'd known he was there. Sometimes, dogs were creepy intuitive.

Tony heaved a deep, resigned sigh. "Alright, _fine_. The dog stays."

Even Bruce found his humor. "Well, that wasn't much of a fight you put up."

Tony gestured. "Well, for fuck's sake. Look at that. How can I say no?"

"Easy," he countered. "You make a 'no' sound with your mouth."

Max interrupted their bickering with a whimper. He nudged Bucky's jaw with his nose and pawed at his shoulder.

"It appears he's fond of his new papa," Tony muttered.

It was all Darcy could do to keep her feet under her. "I thought I was stronger than this," she whispered.

"What do you mean, Short Stack?"

She took a deep, shaky breath. "I just…I don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm not…I'm not as strong as I thought."

Bruce sighed. "Darce—"

"He says I'm the strongest person he's ever met. But he's wrong." She set a hand on the doorjamb and leaned there, unable to keep up any longer.

"Mm, I hardly think a guy like _him_ is capable of being wrong about something like _that_ …" Tony hedged.

Bruce nodded. "Darcy, I think half your problem is the fact that you feel forced to put on a stern face for everyone else's benefit."

"And is it any wonder, with the _Mean Girls_ wandering around?!"

Tony settled his warm hand on her shoulder. "Darce, no one expects Lady Olenna from fucking _Westeros_. You're _human_ —"

" _No_ , I'm _not_!" she snapped. "Or did you forget?! I'm something _else_ now, remember?" She gestured. "If he ever wakes up, we'll be a matching set!"

Max hopped down from the bed, but no one noticed.

"No matter which way you wanna twist this, it's _my fault_ he's in here!" she railed.

"Darcy, if it's anyone's fault, it's _mine_. I was an _asshole_ to Killian and now we're _all_ paying for it—"

"He's so busy blaming _himself_ for everything, and _I'm_ not allowed to do the same?!"

"Darcy, _no_ one thinks—"

"Thinks _what_ , Bruce?! That I'm an _idiot_? Or is it a _traitorous_ _whore_? Is it suddenly _1979_? Are we all afraid he's been sent to learn _nuclear_ _secrets_?! I forget—"

"Is…this a bad time?"

They all shut up simultaneously, turning to find a tall, regal looking fellow out in the hallway, Max sniffing at his ankles and giving him the beady eye.

Stephen Strange was a handsome man—that much the papers hadn't exaggerated on, Darcy could see. His van dyke rivaled Tony's, though, right now, it was much more meticulously groomed. He was tall—about Bucky's height, in fact—with a narrow face, sharp facial features, and icy blue eyes. His hair was chocolate brown and shorn on the sides, with a nice little lift in the middle. His temples had grayed, though, and Darcy wondered if his escapades the previous few months had prematurely aged him, or if—if the rumors were true—his level up to sorcerer had cost him physically.

He stood erect in his wraparound coat and his red cape—collar popped—swirled gently around him in an errie, non-existent breeze.

With an awkward smile at Darcy, he leaned down and offered his palm to Max, who sniffed it warily, nosed it, then licked it, and gave a sweet little bark. Then he got up on his hind legs to illicit a lift in the air.

Strange complied, smiling as he scooped up the dog and held him close in the crook of his arm. "Friendly dog." He glanced at the tags on his collar, fresh from the vet. "Max, hm? Hello, Max."

"Nice of you to come, Strange," Tony said, his smile not quite bleaching the frustration from his eyes as he held out his hand.

But Strange's gaze lit on Darcy and stayed there, even as they shook, and his eyes were soft and full of something like sympathy. "Of course."

Darcy bristled, but didn't speak. She didn't want to be rude; this was just…awful timing and when she felt vulnerable, she tended to lash out. Better to keep her mouth shut.

He didn't offer words of comfort, for which she was glad and found him already wiser than she was. He set Max down. "Anything to help my fellow…team members?"

Bruce shrugged. "Guess we are going to have to band together someday, right? What are the odds we all keep skating by in our little gangs?"

Darcy snorted and turned back to Bucky's bed, where Max was struggling to climb up again, his feet dangling as he grunted softly. She plucked him off and into her arms and sat down in the chair again, feeling small and lost. Max licked her nose and gave her what she could swear was a bolstering look. She sighed.

"What—what did you need this afternoon?" Bruce asked, coming fully into the room and pulling up the sleeves on his white coat.

But Strange shook his head. "Nothing, actually. Just these." He held up his hands—scarred with angry, red lines all down the tarsals and metatarsals.

She tried not to cringe.

He placed himself at the foot of the bed and studied the Winter Soldier, his eyes focused and sharp. "So this is him, hm?"

No one spoke.

"Prognosis?"

"Uhhh…" Bruce stumbled again. "There…isn't one."

Strange smirked and plucked the offered file from Tony's hand. Then he perched at the end of the bed beside Bucky's legs, and frowned as he read through the record, nodding, then shaking his head, then nodding again, making little noises of assent. "Interesting," he finally said.

They all blinked at each other.

"This TMS. Is Agent Romanoff absolutely certain it was a device for Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation?"

Tony shrugged. "She said it was labelled 'TMS'. She's not a neurosurgeon, but she usually knows exactly what she's talking about."

Strange nodded, then went back to the file. "Well. It might be that the effect of a low constant pulse just…fixed him. It's an inconstant medical tool, to say the least, and there's really no knowing how it'll affect one person to the next. Not to mention the fact that he's…a unique case."

Again, they all blinked at each other.

Strange set the file back down. "What I mean to say is that it may have had the simple effect of bringing his sluggish memories to the surface. It's difficult to say, but it may also be responsible for his current state."

Darcy stared at him. "That's it? It wasn't something _I_ did?"

It was out before she'd even made the conscious decision to speak and they all stared at her in surprise for a moment.

Strange sighed. "Well. I can't make _that_ promise, unfortunately. I don't…know enough about…what you can do."

She snorted. "That makes two of us."

His gaze softened. "That being said, I'd put my money—and it, admittedly, isn't much these days—on the TMS having some hand in this. It may be that you…brought him back from the brink, Miss Lewis, and his system is…lost somewhere in between." He shrugged. "Difficult to say, really. It's not like we can do mass studies on super soldiers."

He followed Bruce across into his office, where they studied the brain scans and MRIs.

She tried to block out the low hum of their conversation in the next room as she stared at Bucky's still form. "Any chance you can buff out this star while he's unconscious?"

Tony didn't laugh at her weak attempt at humor. "Vibranium? Eh. Dunno if it'd be worth the effort. Easier if he could…take it off."

She winced.

Silence enveloped them.

Darcy tried hard not to think.

And failed.

"I never thanked you. For…asking Strange to come and…consult. So…thank you."

Tony shrugged one shoulder and gave her a soft look. "No need, kiddo."

Her throat cramped. "Does it make me awful that I…" She swallowed, hard. "That I can't bring myself to touch him?" Her throat all but coiled shut.

Tony's expression softened further.

"I can't do it. I can barely _look_ at him like this…"

Tony scooted his chair over closer to her.

"He looks so… _wrong_. I can't…" She tried to take a deep breath, but failed, burying her fingers in Max's thick fur. "I can't. I can't _do_ it. I keep thinking that…that that's not _my_ Jamie. That's some…imposter. I forgot…"

Tony lifted his arm around her shoulders. "Forgot what?" And his voice was so soft.

A betraying tear slipped down her face. "Super soldiers aren't invincible. You can knock them down, if you try hard enough."

He reached out and brushed the tear away with the back of his knuckle.

"And I dropped a _building_ on him."

Tony didn't offer words of comfort; not only had he used all the ones that he had stored up, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. He wouldn't want to hear them, himself. "He went back for me," left his mouth instead. "They both did."

She sniffled quietly, but didn't speak.

"I've been…trying not to think about it, but…" He looked down into his lap. "If I'd gotten to my suit, or if…if I'd just followed you, maybe…" He sighed. "Guess it's all if's and then's, though, isn't it?"

She tipped into his side and stayed there. "He'd tell you to shut up."

Tony snorted. "Yeah. I know." He sighed. "You know, you're always welcome upstairs. Okay? Pep would flip if she stopped for a minute and realized you were in your place all alone."

" _Again_ ," she added.

Another deep sigh. "Again."

"I'm not, anymore."

Max started pawing across Darcy's lap and climbed into Tony's. "Yeah. The mutt."

"The vet said he's a German Shepard mix of some sort."

He got up on his hind legs, balancing carefully, and peered into Tony's face, his nose nudging the inventor's glasses. A frown turned his mouth down, then up, just a little, tiny bit. "Those are my glasses, not your personal canvas for your nose art, mutt."

Max licked his nose.

Tony sighed and curled his free arm around the dog. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Sorry about him. I…I couldn't just leave him."

He turned his head and gave her a level look, even as Max licked his ear. "Well. You've got a thing for bringing home strays. Who am I to argue?"

They shared a long look, both of them aware he wasn't really talking about the dog.

But Darcy gasped, her gaze flicking to Bucky—

Who was fisting his metal hand again, slowly, the plates whining softly in the quiet of the room. "Bruce!" she called, jumping up out of her chair.

The two men darted through the doorway, and stopped to stare as Bucky unclenched his fist a moment later—

And fell still again.

Strange—frowning in concentration—wasted no time. Before anyone could speak, he gently moved Darcy aside and took her place near his head.

Then he looked up at them all as he took a deep breath. "Just FYI—this might look a little… _weird_."


	23. Chapter 23: Right Here Waiting

**Chapter 23** **: Right Here Waiting**

 **Summary:** **Tipping over the edge...**

 **Notes:** **Hi guys! Next chapter time! I'm so glad you're all enjoying this! Please keep those ideas coming, I love you all! And I'm so glad Max went over so well! When in doubt, just add a puppy, huh? Anyway, let me know what you think or if there's an idea you'd like incorporated. Enjoy. PS-Chapter title taken from-you guessed it-the song of the same name by Richard Marx. Go ahead and laugh, but I seriously grew up listening to that guy and my love for that song has not diminished. Maybe it comes off as cheesy now, but I thought the whole thing related really well. Enjoy!**

 **((()))**

Bucky jerked, the odd sensation that he'd been only half conscious floating through his mind as he looked around, bleary and confused.

A dark green couch, fairly threadbare, but comfortable sat across from him. He looked around. Coffee table in the middle. He was in the only other seat in the room, an ancient armchair with a padded seat. Frowning, he shifted his weight.

Sure enough, it creaked on the right-hand side.

The heat register knocked and he looked up to study the deep window ledge, afternoons reading in the warm sun drifting back to him, the latest paperback from the five-and-dime.

Jerking again, he turned, twisting around to look behind him.

The kitchen, sure enough, with the oven that only worked half the time, and the ice box.

His and Steve's old apartment.

How the hell had he wound up in the living room of their old apartment? God, he hadn't been here in…a warm rush of nostalgia and fond affection flooded him.

It wasn't even standing anymore. The building had been replaced by…

He sat bolt upright.

What the fuck was going on?

He reached up.

Hair still long. He hadn't shaved the day before. He looked down.

He was in hospital gear, loose white pants and a t-shirt, some sort of linen/cotton blend that was less than comfortable.

He swallowed.

How the hell…?

Creaking on the outer landing made him jump about a foot, and he froze as the door opened and he was met with the strangest sight he thought he'd ever seen; this was _really_ saying something.

"You don't think I can _do_ it. _That's_ what this is about. You don't think I'm strong enough." Steve was saying as they came in the front door. Well. _Not_ Steve. _Other_ Steve. He was small—smaller than Bucky remembered—a foot shorter than him and half as wide in his trench coat.

He tried to brace himself for what he knew was next…

"Stevie, I'd be an idiot if I didn't think you were stubborn enough to go out and do whatever the hell ya pleased. But this isn't some back alley fight, man. This is _war_. People _die_ in wars," a strangely unfamiliar voice said. It was funny, he thought, that your own voice sounded different when you weren't hearing it from inside your own head.

Bucky sat there, watching himself come over the threshold in his jumpsuit, hair short again, and slicked back the way he wore it. One short strand had fallen loose over his eyes. He came in and shut the door behind them.

"Yeah, I know that, Buck. That's why I wanna go."

Other Bucky sighed. "And that's exactly why you _shouldn't_ go."

A young Steven Grant Rogers slid off his coat and hung it on the peg by the door. "Hitler's closin' in, Buck. You expect me to just sit here while—"

"Nothing's even happened yet, Stevie. You're jumping the gun. So he's makin' noise about Poland. Just hold your horses, alright?"

Steve threw himself down on the couch and huffed a deep sigh. "I'm just sayin'—don't expect me to sit here like some housewife and wait for you to come back from the trenches."

He laughed, unzipping the jumpsuit to reveal the worn tank he wore beneath it. "Careful, Stevie—you don't want people findin' out I sleep in your bed in the winter." He winked. "The gals'll think we got somethin' goin'."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I can get a gal."

"Don't mean _I can't_." He grinned. "Stevie, I don't need a housewife. I just want you to be safe." He crossed into their shared bedroom—where the wallpaper was worn and peeling in the corner and Steve's bed creaked when he turned over and kept Bucky awake at night.

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Steve called after him.

He reemerged, buttoning his slacks and shaking his head, frowning at the grease on the back of his right hand. "And you're a punk. You wanna start that again? Don't think I don't know what this is about."

Steve scowled down at his lap. "Don't know whatcha mean."

Bucky snorted and perched on the arm of the couch. "I'm not lettin' you join Sarah that easy, punk. You're stuck here with me until you're old and gray."

The future Captain America pulled a face. "Rate I'm goin', shouldn't take long…"

He chuckled. "I intend to keep my best friend healthy as a horse long as I can. _Hey_ —" He clamped down on Steve's shoulder and shook him. "I _mean_ it. You're stuck with me. Remember what we said that day?" Standing beside Sarah's casket. "'Til the end of the line."

Shaking uncontrollably, Bucky lunged up out of the armchair and threw himself at the doorway, not particularly surprised when neither of the shades in the room seemed to notice his presence. With unsteady hands, he tugged on the doorknob and tripped into the hallway, short of breath and desperate to get out before he heard anymore. It clicked shut behind him.

Holy fuck, he was living his own memories, now? What the hell happened and when had he fallen into a lame remake of _It's a Wonderful Life_?! When Darcy had shown him the flick last Christmas, it'd made him distinctly uncomfortable. They'd agreed afterward that it was depressing and decided never to watch it again, no matter how awesome Jimmy Stewart was. She'd giggled and put on _The Muppet Christmas Carol_ instead, declaring it her personal favorite.

Darcy.

Hand over his racing heart, he looked up the hallway, something like homesickness piercing his chest. "Darce?" he called, trying to suppress the ugly thing rising in him that could only be called yearning.

His call echoed.

He frowned. "Dollface…"

Nothing.

In fact, the hallway looked familiar, but…not in the same way the apartment had. The apartment—while eerie and disconcerting in its own rite—had filled him with a warm rush of memories. This hallway…this hallway _did not_.

How had he gotten from there to…to _here_?

Dread began to swirl in the pit of his stomach. "Darce? Babe?"

His heart was racing and he reached up to swipe his hair out of his face. He'd need a trim, soon. He liked it a little longer now, but he didn't want to be ridiculous; he was no girl.

Darcy. Darcy liked to run her fingers through it; said it was buttery soft and liked to laugh when he reacted to having it pulled.

What was the last thing he could remember?

 _Think, Bucky, think._

He remembered…Darcy had a tracking device implanted deep…somewhere. Where was it? A vein? No. Her lung. No, that wasn't right either.

Bruce had explained it, and Tony. It was how they'd tracked them—tracked them all the way from Hawaii.

Another shard of homesickness ground into his sternum and he frowned, clenching his jaw. He wasn't sure what he'd give to be back there, with her, in Tony's beach house, with nothing to worry about but getting in a swim in the morning in the salty water—but he was pretty sure it would be a lot at this rate.

Back in the War, he'd had a hard time imagining having a girl to come home to, someone waiting for him to come back—and all in one piece. He'd been in no place, then, to leave a girl waiting on pins and needles.

Now.

He wasn't sure where he was— _how_ he was—but he was sure that he _needed_ to get back to Darcy.

That sense of dread was tightening in his gut, but he went slowly down the hall, opening doors as he went, finding them blessedly empty—

Until his luck ran out.

George Barnes looked exactly the same as he had in his memory, finally renewed after all these years.

Even the look of bleary drunkenness was exactly as Bucky remembered it, his red-rimmed eyes and his look of hazy disapproval.

He froze, his hand on the knob as they locked eyes.

George sneered. "Well, if it ain't my good-for-nothin' son. 'Bout time you showed up, Jimmy."

((()))

If someone had asked Darcy a year ago if she thought she'd seen everything, she may have considered saying 'yes'. After all, she'd been chased down by a fire-breathing robot from space and subsequently saved by a Norse God with flowing blond hair. And then again, from a very _un_ -Tolkien-esque elf in a London borough. Not to mention she was newly working for a man who flew around in a metal suit with his friendly Artificial Intelligence butler, or that she was best friends with a man who could throw a car, or that she was dating a former brain-washed Soviet assassin capable of killing someone with his small left pinky finger.

But now she'd have felt foolish.

Because seeing an extremely good-looking maybe-sorcerer use his hands to project a three-dimensional image of her husband's brain onto a holo-screen…was perhaps _the strangest thing she'd ever seen_.

Maybe.

Centers in Bucky's brain pulsed and lit up as she watched, his brain stem a constant blink of electrical activity, his lobes different shades of dim and bright.

No, definitely. This was _definitely_ the strangest, bar none.

"Is it okay if I think this is a little creepy?" Bruce muttered a few feet away, leaning into Tony's shoulder.

"Totally normal," Steven Strange said as he frowned, studying the image. He sighed, lifting his free hand to turn the hologram, his other suspended in the air—eerie glowing symbols dangling from his fingers like collectible glittering pendants—keeping the image sustained.

"I don't think ' _normal'_ is a word I would use here, under any circumstances," Darcy piped up, cradling Max in her lap. "Are you seriously projecting my husband's brain right now? _Seriously_."

Strange snorted. "I am, to be fair. It's entirely safe, not to worry."

She stared at his perfectly trimmed sideburns. "Not worried. Not worried at all." She blinked. "So what's up—is he blocked in his Cerebral Cortex or in his Hypothalamus?"

"Two completely opposite sections of the brain," Tony interjected.

Strange smirked, glancing at her with a curious frown. "You're familiar with centers of the brain?"

She shrugged. "Wasn't really trying, just being snarky. But I was pre-Med for about five minutes."

" _Really_?!" Bruce jerked around to give her a suddenly fascinated sort of look, like she'd just stated the puppy in her lap was for him.

Tony turned to give her a funny look as well, as though he was surprised she'd revealed something he didn't know about her.

She shrugged again. "I repeat: _five minutes_."

Strange smiled as he turned back to his work. "What turned you off?"

"The fact that there was no effing way I was going to school for _twelve effing years_. Well, that, and my father would've just _loved_ being able to say he had a neurologist for a daughter."

Bruce wilted a little.

Tony snorted.

"So, yeah. Political Science became my new best friend."

"Quite the leap," the sorcerer said, smiling again as he turned the hologram for a new angle.

"How long did those five minutes last?" Bruce inserted.

She sighed, burying her fingers in Max's thick fur. "Eh. Some Biochem and Psych courses. Physics. The Zoology class was good. And I was the only girl who went back for that nasty second-term morgue visit and didn't yak."

Bruce absolutely beamed at her.

Tony's crooked expression tightened further. "Wait. You've got physics experience?"

She raised an eyebrow. "How do you think I follow a good quarter of what you're talking about, Boss Man?"

He just stared at her.

"Psychology, hm?" Strange asked.

"Yeah."

"Interesting."

She leaned forward, suspicious of Max, and grabbed his shoulders before he could make the leap to the floor again. "Why?"

He just bent closer to Bucky. "Oh, never mind." He sighed. "Alright, well. He's got a block."

Darcy jerked. "I was kidding."

Strange straightened and gave her that same considering look. "Well, you were right."

Bruce stepped forward. "Where?"

He straightened his cloak. "That's the thing— _everywhere_. His mind is _entirely locked inside itself_."

((()))

Bucky slammed the door shut, knee-jerk reaction, his father's face disappearing from view.

Horror lanced through him. He hadn't seen his father since at least a year before the War, and that parting had been less than cordial. He'd done the thing that you just didn't do back then, he'd broken the ultimate rule: he'd turned his back on his family.

George had become intolerable and his mother weak, just watching it all unfold with her mouth zipped shut.

He'd done his best—but usually your best wasn't enough.

"Jimmy?"

He whipped around, ice filtering through his blood as he set eyes on a ghost that had been haunting his subconscious for quite some time now, particularly these last few weeks since Hawaii.

Becca.

 _Exactly_ as she'd been when last they'd spoken, her brown hair pulled back in a knot at the base of her skull, a plaid dress, her buckle shoes.

Words stuck in his throat as he stared at her like he'd been slapped.

Her milk-white face scrunched up in misunderstanding and a tear slipped down one cheek. "You never came home," she murmured.

He took an unconscious step back, opening his mouth to speak, though, still, nothing came out.

Her voice grew in strength as she shadowed him, her small hands fisting at her sides. "You _promised_ me you'd come home, Jimmy."

The accusation was clear in her tone, the betrayal and bitterness slicing a clean etching across the surface of his heart—the confession that had been coating the back of his throat since her presence had taken on a clearer foundation in his mind.

Swallowing reflexively, he took another step in retreat, still trying to speak, but this time, when he tried, no sound came out, as though the words had been carved from his tongue.

She advanced on him, rapidly, reaching out to loop her fingers around his wrist.

He snatched his arm back.

"Why didn't you come back, Jimmy? You _promised_." Another tear. "You _promised_ me—remember?" She reached up suddenly and slapped a hand to his chest and he stared in blank shock that she was able to make physical contact at all.

She wasn't just a phantom.

"You _promised_!"

"I—" he stammered.

She slammed her small fist again into his sternum. " _Why_ would you make a promise you couldn't keep?! Instead you _left me with them_!"

He started darting back, down the hall behind him, blindly reaching for the far wall, where his old bedroom had been—if it was still where he'd left it in his mind, of course. "Bec—"

"You left me with them! With _him_! You _promised_ you'd come back for me!"

Her face was a mask of bitter anger and disappointment, sharp in its betrayal, and a bruise formed around the apple of her left cheek as he watched.

"You _left_ me. With _him_! Were the Germans too interesting for you, Jimmy?!"

Her words sliced through him like a straight razor, horror and awful guilt welling up in the wound and seeping past his numb shock.

Had the Army not told them _anything_?! Had they just left him MIA for the last few _decades_?! "Becca, I didn't—"

"You didn't _what_?! You didn't think about me at _all_ , did you?!"

His hand landed on the doorknob and he fumbled at it blindly behind his back.

"You just went gallivanting off with Steve! You promised me you'd come back! So _why didn't you_?!"

He finally fumbled the door open and threw himself backward through it.

((()))

The Common Room in Avengers Tower, it turned out, was a good place to brood.

Darcy discovered this by accident, really, wandering the halls after Strange's consultation, with Max at her heels, glaring suspiciously at anyone who dared to pass too closely to his new human.

As if she needed another reason for people to give her a wide berth.

But she didn't really notice, the only thought in her head that she was fresh out of wine and that she knew Tony kept a few bottles of her favorite stashed in the back of the fridge there, where no one ever spotted it.

When she turned away from the fridge, she found Max perched on the back of an armchair that someone had pushed up to face the view, the opposite side of the one in their own suite and much higher—the Common Room was on one of the top-most floors to make for a drop-dead party space. She sighed as she took in the wide Manhattan panorama. It was late afternoon—just late enough to shamelessly drink—and the light was slanting at a sunny diagonal across the glass. "Wow, Max. Good eye." She poured half a glass, set the bottle on the counter to take with her later, and sat down to join him.

He curled up in her lap, heaved a great big contented puppy sigh, and nodded off.

She smiled. The true sign of trust and comfort—the deep sigh.

She'd recognized it in Bucky fairly early, and it had made her heart expand three sizes too big, like the fucking Grinch. The fact that he had felt so quickly comfortable with her had given her a strange warmth that she hadn't quite understood then.

She recognized it now, of course, as just the opening salvo to a quick and dramatic trip head over heels that still left her a little breathless. If half of Bucky Barnes had swept her off her feet so easily, she could only begin to imagine what he'd been capable of back then, under the charm of his full power.

He'd slept with her. Well, not the sex part, not that early, but the fact that he'd felt safe enough with her, secure in his trust of her, to allow himself to fall unconscious spoke volumes about their bond, the knot of feeling that drew them together.

If she sat still enough, if she allowed her heart to slow and her feelers—as she'd taken to calling them—to edge just a little bit out of their hidey-holes, she could almost _feel_ him.

No, she _knew_ she could.

She could feel him, just there, on the other side of the veil, treading water, grasping at the curtain and desperately searching for the way back through, like a poor, helpless soul who'd fallen through a hole in the ice and gone topsy-turvy, unable to find the exit again.

His heart was beating. And he was looking for her. She could feel him looking for her, could feel him trying to reach out for her.

But it was dim wherever he was, and difficult to see around whatever illusion he'd been forced into.

Before the yearning could claw its way up her throat and overtake her, she swallowed it back down again, and focused on the spectacular view out the window. There was a balcony, but the wind was high up here and she didn't fancy a headache, nor did she think Max would appreciate being stuck in here without her. He'd quickly taken to her like glue.

He sighed again in his sleep and readjusted his head on her lap.

Darcy exhaled long and deep, too, sipping her wine and rolling it around on her tongue, painfully aware of the irony of her circumstances—her need to get drunk and stay that way for a few days was becoming rather acute, and yet she was resolutely unable.

Probably a good thing, really.

"I'm assuming you're aware that the Super Soldier Serum cancels out your ability to get blackout drunk," a voice spoke suddenly from the doorway.

She whipped around, Max growling in her lap, to find Stephen Strange hovering in the doorway.

Well, he wasn't _literally_ hovering—she checked. "And _I'm_ assuming you're aware that sneaking up on people while they're brooding usually scares the shit out of them?" she fired back, giving him a wry look.

Truth be told, if she weren't so devoted to her Jamie, she'd be looking twice at the sorcerer in front of her—although he struck her as already carrying a torch for someone not quite within reach. But he was handsome, and he had sad eyes.

Whatever the fuck was inside her was starting to creep her out. Who knew just what had happened when the two serums had merged. Maybe she was some sort of weird empath now.

He shrugged and strolled slowly into the room, unhooking his cloak as he walked. "Still getting used to it."

As she watched, he let go of the garment—and it floated, on its own, over to the nearest chair and settled itself over the back.

She blinked, not particularly fazed, but intrigued none-the-less.

"It's enchanted."

She nodded. "Of course it is."

He smiled as he came further into the room. "Listen, I know that…in your realm of science fiction, this looks like something out of a child's magic show—"

"No, no. I'm down with it," she interrupted. "I'm just…adjusting my worldview."

"Again," he inserted.

"Right."

Max sat up and peered over her shoulder at the sorcerer.

"Your dog thinks I'm strange."

"Can you…like, _communicate_ …or something?"

He snorted. "No. Just a guess."

She nodded again. "Right. Just checking."

He stood close to the window, taking in the view, and for a moment, it was comfortably quiet. "So you thought you'd come up here to brood, is that it?"

She gave him a bitter smile and held up her wine glass, stemless and quickly warming in her palm, mellowing the drink within. "I've learned from the best."

A sad smirk curled one side of his mouth. "I suppose I would expect him to have mastered the art more than anyone else here, that's true. From what I've heard of him, anyway."

She sighed.

He turned to look at her, again, with those sharp, cunning eyes of his. "Is he as ruthless as they say?"

She blinked at him, a little surprised at his candor. "Well." She swallowed. "The _Winter Soldier_ was. They… _made_ him to be. But…" She wasn't sure how to continue, or if she wanted to.

"Not James Barnes," he finished for her.

To her horror, tears welled up in her eyes before she could gather them back under control, and she sat there, staring at him, refusing to let a single one fall. "No."

He nodded, looking back out the window.

She blinked rapidly, swallowing the pain back down again, wrestling it back into its steel cage, where she kept it, safe and secure and out of sight of everyone else. "I mean, if you piss him off enough, you'll probably regret the fact that he's got a metal arm, but…" She cleared her throat.

Another wry smirk. "His bark is worse than his bite."

"Right."

She sipped at her wine and focused everything she had into the tart bite at the back of her mouth, tingling on her tongue. Bucky had said once, in a quiet moment, in the dark of their room, that it tasted different on her mouth, not hard, but sweet and soft.

She wasn't sure why the hell she was telling all this to a near complete stranger, but suddenly she couldn't stop. "He's not the monster everyone thinks he is. He's…sweet. And quiet. And it bothers him that he can't be who he was. I think. He's never…said as much. But…"

He turned that pale blue gaze on her again. "He misses the man he used to be."

She sighed. "I'm…not sure what it is. I mean, other than the obvious. I'm…not sure he liked who James Barnes was either. But if he's not James anymore, and he's not…The _Asset_ "—it burned on her tongue and turned to ash—"I don't think he knows where that leaves him. He's spent the past year trying to revive whoever that was that he left behind but…I think it's occurring to him now, that…that puzzle piece doesn't fit anymore."

"There is no way out," Strange said, still staring out the window, looking quite brooding, himself, now. "Only a way further in." He glanced down at his left wrist, at the watch there.

She blinked, a chill itching down her back. "Right."

"And he trusted you to pull him through that—further in?"

She shrugged, adjusting as Max started to slump in deep sleep. "Guess so. Not sure why. I didn't really do anything."

He cocked his head and studied her. "Maybe that's why. Did that occur to you?"

She blinked. "That I've done nothing much for him—yeah, it occurs to me all the time," she snarked, taking another sip. "Used to love that song—' _You can stand under my umber-ella-ella-ella-eh_ '." The sorcerer, so far, had a strange ability to stare straight past her armor and she felt the need to slip another layer on.

He smirked—a real one this time. "No, has it occurred to you that he trusted you because you had no ulterior motive?"

She hemmed, then hawed, then squinted one eye at him, pulling a guilty face. "Well, that's not entirely true either—I mean, I thought he was pretty hot."

A first for her—Strange laughed, a nice, warm husky chuckle. "I meant that you didn't expect anything he wasn't able to give."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Just how much do you know about him?"

He turned back to the window. "Since my…transformation…I've made it a responsibility of mine to know as much as I can about others like me. The Avengers, for instance. If something…unpleasant should happen and it's necessary for us all to work together, I need an understanding of my…coworkers, if you will." He gave her a wry look and turned back to the window.

Max cooed in his sleep and settled deeper into her lap.

"I've watched all the footage. Seen all there is to see, studied SHIELD and HYDRA and AIM."

She couldn't stop the bitterness from leaking out, a tiny spark of anger. "And so you wanted to come and see the World's Deadliest Assassin, hm?"

He turned fully to face her. "I came because Stark asked a favor, his voice shaking as he told me about the girl who'd come to be his daughter and how much pain she was in, watching her partner's life tip in the balance," he said, his voice gentle and low.

She flushed. "He said that?"

He nodded, slowly, not breaking eye contact. "It was heavily implied that you were…special. If you managed to heal a broken man in a year flat, you're more than special."

She looked away. "Brought him back from the dead like a fucking White Walker—and for what?"

Strange sighed. "It does seem that you have quite the connection."

She tipped back the last of her wine and set the glass on the side table. "Lot of good that's doing him now."

He shrugged. "It may be the only thing that's keeping him tethered to this plane, Darcy."

She stared at him—hard. " _What_?"

He gave her the same look right back. "You know what I do, right?"

She nodded. "You…" And she petered quickly out.

He smiled, not unkindly. "I protect our world from…threats. Of the otherworldly variety. I have a strong understanding of those other worlds and what it means to travel between, of what it means to feel the power of those realms in my hands." He showed her his scars again. "I can feel…things, connections, lines, energies, now, that I couldn't before, that I spent my life scoffing at. The bonds between people, their auras, everything that sounds like a load is based on some cosmic truth, Darcy. Your connection to him is…palpable. I felt it as soon as I walked in the room."

She couldn't look away from him. "That's why you were staring at me instead of Tony?"

His gaze softened. "I was staring at you because your aura was giving off the strangest wheel of colors and reading you was fascinating and I was determined to untangle your energies."

She blinked at him. Then blinked again.

His expression softened further. "You're this rainbow of reds and blues and purples and I…I wanted to help. To do what I can. That's why I…do what I do, now. I can still help people, just…as a different sort of doctor."

She stared into his expressive face. "What do the colors mean?"

He sighed. "You're angry. You're defensive, you're pulled so tightly into yourself you're in danger of collapsing into a deep well, Darcy. You're full of blue sadness and indigo mourning and everything in between." He huffed. "I know how this sounds…"

She nodded, a little dazed.

He ran his fingers roughly through his hair. "Just…try to use that. He's just _barely_ out of reach."

She bit her bottom lip. "You said he's blocked?"

He sighed again. "He's got a dark energy surrounding him, he's locked somewhere in his head, Darcy. So you need to use that connection to try and dig him out."

She jerked. " _Me_?! Why _me_?!"

He gestured, casting about. "You're….you're his…"

Girl. He'd called her His Girl more than once, old-fashioned and sweet.

Wife.

Lover.

Best friend.

Confidant.

Teammate.

Partner in crime.

Human shield.

Cheerleader.

Partner—

"Mate," he finally landed on, surprising her. "Your bond is strong. People don't understand what they do when they take a vow, what sorts of energies they bring together, they don't understand just what it is they're doing, tying themselves to another soul, but…you. _You_ understand. _Use that connection_."

She stared at him in shock. " _I'm the one that dropped a building on him_!" she explained, incredulous. " _What good will I do_?"

He took a deep breath and finally sat down in the chair beside hers and took up her hand, reaching across the distance and closing the loop. "I don't know what they did to you, Darcy. It would take me years to understand just how the various things you've been stuck with have altered you. Something like that is tailored specifically to a person's internal structures, but I know you can feel things now. Don't tell me you can't. I can see it in your face."

Shocked at this psychic reading, she tried to jerk her hand back, but he wouldn't let her. "What do you mean?"

A vaguely triumphant smile curled one corner of his mouth. He knew he had her. "You aren't just Darcy Lewis anymore, are you?"

She flinched, not just at his use of the name she was becoming more and more desperate to shed, but at his accusation.

"You're something _else_. You're something _more_. You have capabilities I'm sure you haven't even had a chance to stumble on yet, and you don't even _know_ it. You brought him back. I looked at his readings, Darcy, and his files. Banner is right: he was dead, Darcy. He was dead for a full _two minutes_. That's long enough to lose someone to the darkness, that's long enough for brain damage and organ failure, but you brought him back. You pulled him from whatever pit he was sinking into. And you healed Max, so I'm told. Bucky responded to you when you spoke-twice."

A chill ran up her spine. "How do you know all this?"

He squeezed her hand, but ignored her question. " _Use that_ , Darcy. He's just there, he's _just_ out of reach. I can't reach his energies, but I can see them flagging. Use that tether and reel him back in."

((()))

She spent an inordinate amount of time that night staring up at the dark ceiling, Max sound asleep beside her, curled up against her shins under the covers.

Stephen Strange's words that afternoon still floated around in her head, making things murky and covering all her other thoughts in sludge.

He was right: she wasn't Darcy anymore. She was someone— _something_ —else. It was time she accepted it. She'd wanted to belong to the team before, and in a heavier capacity than administrative support and marital connection, and now—ironically, of course—she did. She was definitely one of them now, and there was no way around it.

She'd feel better about it if she knew just what she was supposed to be doing. But she barely understood what she was capable of, and it wasn't like there was someone around to show her.

She had _two_ serums swimming in her veins.

She was capable of healing herself—and others—in an enhanced fashion.

At strange, inappropriate moments, she had the same strength as an enhanced individual as well. Her reflexes were the same, only enhanced at incomprehensible intervals.

She huffed out a sigh. "I had to be a freak among freaks, huh?" she said to the ceiling, finally sitting up and throwing off the covers.

Max didn't budge.

Figuring she might as well let the rambunctious guy sleep, she slid on her leggings under her overlarge sleeping t-shirt and then one of Bucky's sweaters, a thin, blue-striped thing that was soft and well-worn and smelled like him. It drowned her. She let it comfort her for a short moment, but when her throat started to cramp, she huffed again and went on her way, out of the suite and down the stairs, determined to throw off her restlessness with movement.

And she found herself in the lab again, switching on a dim lamp that Bruce kept in the corner, and it warmed the room with soft, pale light. She went to perch in the chair beside the bed, but then found herself sliding onto the bed beside him, propping herself next to his right hip.

For a moment, there was an illusion that he would turn his head and open his eyes and look at her, the same way he always did, his blue gaze warm with affection.

But he was still, even as she reached down to brush a lock of hair away from his face. She'd tried reaching out to him again with her strange abilities so many times she'd lost count. Of course, she hadn't mentioned her failures to Tony or Bruce, knowing they'd skin her alive if they knew she was making attempts.

As yet, he was out of reach to her, at least along that avenue.

The yearning sharpened in her chest, an acute burn attempting to push out of her sternum. She reached down and took up his hand. "You're probably right, you know," she murmured to him. "A psychiatrist would say that our codependent relationship is unhealthy."

Nothing.

"But I'm functioning just fine, so I'd tell him to just suck it, probably." She smiled at her own brashness.

His right, human hand was limp, but his skin was warm against hers. "I miss you," she whispered. "I wish you'd come back. There are still a bunch of corny movies I have to show you, and you need to finish reading _The Secret Garden_ to me. Remember? We only got halfway through. I wanna know what happens, you tease."

The heart monitor continued to beep softly. His pulse was steady against her palm. She traced his wedding band with her thumb, the etching she'd had engraved, and knew the engraving that went with it would still be fresh on the inside of the ring. 'Jamie'.

"I lied," she whispered, unable to force her voice out further as her stubborn throat continued to tighten. "I'm not functioning. I'm barely able to pull myself out of bed." She bit her lip and a tear leaked down her cheek. "I can't think of anything but the fact that _I put you here_." Her voice sounded breathy and weak to her own ears and she rolled her eyes at the damsel she'd become. "And I know that you'd tell me to shut up. But it's not something that I can just ignore, Jamie. One way or another, _I put you here_."

For a long moment, she sat there, holding his hand, gasping for breath as tears rolled silently down her cheeks, determined to get it under some semblance of control.

It took longer than she liked to admit.

"I've never needed anyone before," she finally murmured, staring down at his hand. "I learned, early, to rely on myself. Everyone else was a potential disappointment. So I shut myself in. I built walls around myself and I didn't even really know I was doing it. But you…" She smiled. "You're such a bastard, you just tunneled under instead. And now I…now I need you." She swallowed. "It's sort of awful, needing someone. I don't…I don't know what to do now." She sniffled. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do, Jamie."

He was still.

"Strange thinks I can…find you…wherever you are. Don't really…know what that means, but…" She also didn't know how it would be any different than what she'd already tried. She squeezed his hand and spent a long time staring into his face, the way the dim lamp cast its glow over his features, half of him thrown into romantic relief.

God, when she was young, she'd stared at his picture in her class history book, his high cheekbones and tough jaw, the laughter in his eyes. Her friend, Emma, had gone on and on about Captain America and how much he looked like her Ken Doll—come to think of it, Darcy wondered if he'd been the basis for the design. She'd always wondered, then, if she'd been trying to lay some claim in the way young girls do, which was ironic now, considering she was _best friends_ with the guy.

But she'd always quietly admired the other one, the friend, thrown into shadow by Steven Roger's suddenly two-for-the-price-of-one outline.

Bucky Barnes, clever name, unofficial leader of the Howling Commandos, Sergeant of the 107th Ground Troop. _The only member to give his life_.

She'd thought it was so romantic and brave, noble and valiant.

Creepy, now, looking back. She'd _married_ him, after all. It was like history had been whispering in her ear and looking at him sometimes gave her a strange, unquantifiable sense of déjà vu. He'd been plucked out of 1945 and deposited here, in front of her.

Except, he hadn't. He'd suffered through decades of torture and torment, doing the dirty work of the Cold War villains she'd read about in high school, things that had made her blood run cold, things he still didn't talk much about, even to her. _He'd_ been the one to get his hands bloody while they sat behind their desks and plotted with their fingers steepled, pushing the pieces around on their chessboards.

He hadn't been the knight, though; he'd been the pawn, so easily moved around, fighting battles at everyone else's behest.

To a certain degree, as much as she hated it and disagreed with it on a moral level, on a fundamental level, he was still right: he hadn't been in control of his actions. But he'd still been the one to carry his orders out.

Nothing could change that and nothing could erase it. What was done was done.

Was he back in torture now, she wondered, trapped in his own head with all those ghosts?

 _Could_ she break him out?

She let go of his warm hand with a heavy sigh and adjusted her position so that she could settle her palm over his sternum. Then she spent a moment fishing around for that nameless something that had taken up residence deep inside her, a little cushy pocket of power that nestled there, somewhere behind her heart. "Jamie?" she whispered, leaning low over him and looking into his handsome face. "I don't have a cute, foreign pet name for you, baby. But you gotta come back to me. It's cold out here without you."

There was no other word for it: her heart gave a shuddering shiver.

But nothing else happened.

She shut her eyes and focused, tugging at that loose thread again, finding it easily this time, right there, right where she needed it, and coaxing it loose.

But nothing happened.

She sighed, fairly certain that it was physically, _scientifically_ possible to feel your heart breaking, and cursing that it could take this long, be this drawn out. A bit of torture in itself, as she half-laid there, staring into his unresponsive face.

"You can't leave me like this," she murmured. "A month isn't long enough." She was pretty sure that no amount of time with him would be long enough, but that was neither here nor there.

She fell asleep, curled up beside him, her head on his chest.

((()))

"Pep, I _literally_ just walked out the door five minutes ago—what, you can't go a few seconds without telling your husband how much you adore him?" Tony snarked into his Starkphone as he waited for JARVIS to drop him off on the lab floor.

Pepper sighed into the phone. "Tony." But her annoyed tone was laced with amusement.

He smiled. "Whatcha need, _Miss Potts_ —more of your man? I can come back up, don't wanna be accused of employee maltreatment."

She snorted. "Uh, doesn't the fact that I'm the CEO of Stark Industries make _you_ my employee, _Mister Stark_?"

He chuckled. "Ah, see, an easy mistake. The fact that it's _my_ company nullifies your argument," he fired back. "We're getting lunch, right? Noon?" He pointed. "I'll swing by for you."

"Oh, Tony, we can meet there—"

"Ah, no. None of that," he interrupted. "If I agree to that you'll lose yourself in some conference call with some suit with his head up his ass and I'll never see you again. I'm pickin' you up, Potts, and we're going down to—" He ground to a halt, both his feet and his words.

A short pause.

"Tony?" Pepper questioned.

There was a sudden squeezing sensation in his chest in the general vicinity of his heart as he stared through the glass. "Oh, shit," he murmured.

"What?" Pepper asked, sounding slightly alarmed.

He sighed. "The kid's in the lab."

Another short pause. "It's a little early, but it's understandable," she said, her voice softening with sympathy. "I mean, he is her—"

"No," he cut her off. "I mean, she's _asleep_ in here. The lamp's on, looks she was here late."

A long pause. Then—"Oh, _Tony_."

He sighed again, unsure what to do. "Do I go in? Do I stay out here and wait for her to wake up? What do I _do_ , here? I'll wake her up if I go in and start working…"

"Tony," Pepper coached, shifting tasks. "Go in. Wake her up as gently as you can. But send her home."

He tugged a hand down his face, exhausted. This whole ordeal was totally sapping him of sleep. "I _can't_."

Her voice sharpened a little. " _Tony Stark_ —"

"No, I mean, I can _try_ , but she won't go. You _know_ how she is. She's stubborn. No wonder we get along so well. She either won't leave his side or she'll insist on working to distract herself. She hates just sitting in that apartment—"

Her voice sharpened further at the idea that he hadn't offered to have her stay with them. " _Why_ didn't you—"

"I _did_!" he rejoined, jumping on the defensive. "Of _course_ I offered our spare room! She's ignored the offer. _God_ , Pep, you think I'm a monster?"

His wife took a deep breath over the phone. "No, Tony. I think you're a good man who's a little lost in the dark. Sometimes tough love is necessary. You know that better than anyone."

He sighed, leaning his forehead on the glass. "I don't know what to do for her, Pep."

"You don't have to do much of anything," she murmured. "Just go and be there for her. She needs you right now."

They hung up and he slowly edged his way into the lab, walking softly in his Nikes, determined not to wake her yet.

Bucky hadn't moved, like he'd been remade in stone.

And Darcy had curled up beside him, on the small patch of bed that was clear, her head on a folded arm, her other hand resting on Bucky's waist.

Bracing himself, he reached out and set a hand on her shoulder. "Darce?"

She was out, and out hard, for she didn't stir.

He wrapped his hand around her shoulder and squeezed. "Short Stack."

Nothing.

Frowning, he shook her gently, but she was boneless beneath his hand. "Darcy. _Darcy_." Alarm spiking a sharp trail up his spine, he used both hands, leaning low over her and turning her over.

She had all her color.

" _Darcy_!" He pulled her off the bed and into his arms, letting her legs trail on the floor as he cradled her in his arms. " _DARCY_!" he shouted, pressing his fingers to her throat.

A pulse throbbed there, good and strong.

But she wouldn't wake.

"Darcy, don't you play games with me, baby girl!" he ordered. But she'd never been the sort to play a game like this, so he slammed his palm into the flashing button on the wall beside the bed.

 _Paging Doctor Banner_ , JARVIS said. _Stand by_.

"Darcy. Darcy, _Darcy_ …" he kept repeating, like a mantra, his heart thundering in his chest as he held her close, pressing his fingers again and again to her pulse, determined not to lose it.

 _All vital signs normal, Sir_ , JARVIS added.

Bruce skidded into the lab just then, his glasses askew, his hair sleep-tousled, still in his ratty t-shirt and pajama bottoms. "What's going on?"

"There's something in the _goddamn water_ , Bruce," Tony snapped, clutching Darcy close.

Bruce frowned, straightened his glasses and crossed the room. "She's displaying the same symptoms?"

 _All vital signs are normal, Doctor_ , JARVIS said again.

"All he told me was that we had someone unresponsive, he didn't say it was _Darcy_. She's doing the same thing?" He pressed his fingers to her throat as well, then nodded. "Pulse is normal. She's breathing regularly."

Steve appeared in the doorway, face drawn. "What's going on? The Admin Team Alert went off in our room."

Tony could've cursed that bloody alert system right then, the decision they'd come to that only Team Lead rooms would be notified of any potential emergency. And Steve was one of those Team Leads.

"It's Darcy."

Steve's face paled. "What's wrong with her?"

"She won't wake up," Bruce said, his voice low as he slid a hand under Darcy's t-shirt. "No fever, nothing's ruptured," he continued, feeling around. "Steve, could you—?"

"Already on it." He darted into the adjoining room, and after a moment, a metallic dragging sound interrupted the eerie stillness as he pulled a second bed into the rather cavernous, echoing room.

Tony laid her on it and Bruce went to work, hooking things up, taking readings, but soon…

He shrugged. "I'm…I'm lost. I don't get it."

They all stood around, staring down at her.


	24. Chapter 24: Ballad Of the Mighty I

**Chapter 24** **: Ballad Of the Mighty I**

 **Summary:** **Ever see Inception? Here ya go.**

 **Notes:** **Whew. Okay, sorry for the delay, guys. I've had a little trouble finding the end for this, but I think I'm almost there. Promise. These updates will probably, seriously, be a few pretty quick now, because there's a Thanksgiving idea I really wanna hammer out and I've gotta get thru this one first. So lemme know how I'm doing! Love you all!** **Sarah** **PS-Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds. Seriously LOVE that band! If you loved Oasis, you've gotta check 'em out! Anyway, give it a listen. The song fits nicely. Oh-and I don't own Marvel.**

((()))

"…I'm lost…"

Darcy whipped around, startled by the faint voice that seemed to speak just over her right shoulder.

But no one was there.

In fact…she wasn't sure _she_ was there.

She wasn't sure where she was. Or how the hell she'd gotten there.

It was a house.

A deceptively large house, she got the feeling, but right now she was standing in the hallway like an idiot.

She'd taken a few art history courses as an undergrad, and, looking around, saw that the interior was done in an Arts and Crafts sort of style, which made the house quite old. Most likely, it was turn of the century, with lots of pretty woodwork and intricate, floral wallpaper.

Where the hell was she?

A cool, eerily familiar sort of feeling washed through her, and she stood for a long moment, considering things. Was she dreaming? Had she hit a strange button somewhere and been transported through time—had she stumbled across the TARDIS?!

She thought about trying one of the many doors, but decided against it, not wishing to walk in on a scene she may not want to be privy to.

Maybe, though, it could offer some clue?

But when she heard the faint sound of voices below, her mind was made up for her.

She went carefully down the creaky staircase, and came out into an open entryway. To the right lay a neat living room that she only glanced in, and to her left and behind, a small kitchen.

A woman stood at the stove over a steaming pot, and a young girl sat at the table, scribbling slowly onto a piece of paper, what looked like a schoolbook open in front of her.

Darcy's 'What-the-Fuck' meter flew past its highest setting, and she stood there, staring, openmouthed.

Neither of them seemed to notice her.

Then the woman turned and surveyed the girl's progress. "Remember to cross your T's, dear," she said, her voice low and coaxing, before turning back around.

Darcy blinked and took a step. "I'm, uh, sorry. But…I'm not really sure where I am, and I was…hoping…" She drifted off as it became clear that they could not hear her, and she noticed for the first time, just what they were wearing.

Dresses, in an old fashion, with cinched waists and high knots at the back of the head, severe, to look repressed and modest. Stockings, buckle shoes. No makeup.

The…twenties? Late Twenties, surely.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as a suspicion began growing there, standing the hair on her arms on end.

The woman turned again, and Darcy studied her face, her straight nose, her blue, blue eyes… "Rebecca, really," she scolded, her voice colored by Brooklyn, no doubt about it. "Dot those i's, dear, or you'll be docked for it. This is meant to be a penmanship lesson. Your brother wasn't nearly so much trouble."

The girl ducked her head.

Rebecca.

Could that mean…?

Just then, as Darcy was half forming the thought, the door flew open and two young boys came tumbling in, laughing. They flew straight past her and Darcy was shocked as she felt the light breeze they stirred up.

She wasn't merely in an illusion, then. She was actually, seriously—

"That was cheating, Buck, and you know it!" the young, fair-haired boy accused, but he was smiling.

The brunette turned, laughing, and Darcy stared a young Bucky Barnes straight in the face, sixteen maybe, color high in his cheeks, his hair wind-tousled, his eyes very, very blue.

Her mouth dropped open at the familiar shape of his face. His cheekbones were already high enough to cut glass.

"S'not my fault you're slow, Stevie!"

"Close the door, boys," his mother ordered. "It's cold in New York in October."

A young Steve brushed past her and she shivered at the touch of his sweater sleeve. He wore no coat. "Sorry, Mrs. B."

"We went down to the new book shop down the street," Bucky said.

Becca gasped. "The one next to Mr. Jones' place?!"

"Yeah," Steve said. "He's got all sorts of neat books!"

"Oh, please, mama—"

"Finish your schoolwork first, Becca. Then I'm sure your brother would be nice enough to take you there. Wouldn't you, Jimmy?"

Bucky smiled again, wider, and the effect sent Darcy's heart fluttering in her chest, so familiar was the sensation. Her breath swept out of her and a sharp sense of longing tightened everything in her, making her flee, running back up the stairs and into the hall she'd initially found herself in.

She grabbed for the nearest doorknob and threw herself through the doorway, slamming it shut behind her, gasping for air. "What the fuck?!"

But she realized then, that she wasn't alone.

An even more familiar figure was standing there, in front of the only ornamentation in the room—a stone fireplace.

And above his muzzle-like mask, his empty blue eyes were staring at her.

((()))

"Same thing," Stephen Strange said as he sat down in the provided plastic chair beside Darcy's bed. "Total block."

Tony pulled a hand down his face and gave a frustrated sigh. "Yes, we've _established_ that. But what does that _mean_ , doc? And I don't know about anyone else, but regardless of my MIT degree, I am so exhausted, I am beyond the reach of words that are longer than three syllables."

"Here, here," Steve sighed from the corner, the afternoon sun glinting off his wedding ring and lighting a small portion of his tired face.

The Sorcerer Supreme smiled sympathetically. "It means that she took my advice. She managed to tap into whatever ability she has and form a neural link with Bucky."

" _Neural_ link?" Steve asked. "God, does anyone else think this is dissolving into some lame science fiction plot?"

Bruce, dozing at his desk, snored softly.

"What _ability_?" Tony added.

The doctor shrugged. "It would take me years to catalogue what she's capable of, but it would appear she's got some… _unique_ _talents_."

Bruce, grunting, suddenly jerked awake. "What sorts of talents?"

Strange sighed and sat back. "Well, her healing abilities would tend to signify that she has some psionic ability."

"Which means?" Steve drawled, propping his head in one hand.

"She can manipulate matter, perform certain healing feats, things like that," Tony answered, staring hard at the magic-wielder.

Strange nodded. "Has she displayed anything else that might—"

"Yes," he replied, interrupting. "She, uh…" He glanced down into his lap, a little uncomfortable. "She, apparently, made an SUV…spontaneously combust."

" _What_?!" Bruce crowed.

Steve jerked, sitting up so quickly he nearly overturned his chair.

Strange merely cocked a brow, calm, but intrigued. "Really?"

"You didn't think to tell me that a little _sooner_ , Tony?" Bruce demanded, straightening his glasses.

Tony shrugged, pulling a face. "Well, we were a little distracted with internal detonators and _things blowing up_!"

Strange interrupted before it could get out hand. "What, _exactly_ , happened?"

The inventor pulled a hand down his face again. "Bucky said it was like…an air gun. It looked like…the air rippled out from where she touched the dash. Their cars were connected, and…this…energy wave, we'll call it, sent the SUV backward, where it rolled off the shoulder, turned over, and…the gas tank ruptured."

A heavy silence filled the room.

"So, she's…telekinetic?" Steve asked, sounding apprehensive.

Strange cocked his head, thinking. "Well, with the Extremis coming into play, it's difficult to say. She certainly has some sort of ability to affect things with her mind, both living and non."

"'Living' referring to the fact that she brought this guy, here, back from the fucking _dead_?" Tony asked, his voice dark with sarcasm.

Strange shook his head. "I have to admit, that part does make me…nervous."

"Why?" Steve asked, frowning.

The sorcerer sighed. "Because…bringing someone back from…beyond the veil, it's…we're talking about something else, entirely."

Tony snorted. "So is she psionic or is she a _necromancer_? Which is it?"

Strange took a deep, deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Resurrection is…it's a powerful gift. But…it's dark. The other side looks over your shoulder each time you draw its attention. It can be dangerous…and seductive."

"How do you even _know_ all this?!" Steve suddenly exclaimed, gesturing wildly, his face screwed up in one-part annoyance, one-part wariness. He wasn't sure he trusted this odd man.

Strange offered a lackluster smile. "It's been quite a journey, but…I've done my fair share of exploring. I know it sounds insane, but…it's what I have to offer you."

"So Darcy's in danger because she, what…folded the planes of the universe to get him back?!" Tony interjected flippantly, gesturing a bit himself as he rolled his eyes.

The former doctor shook his head. "It may be nothing more than the fact that she managed to pull him back from the brink simply by the strength of their union. It may as simple as that. She offered herself to whatever it was the universe wanted and she struck a deal. She probably doesn't even know how she did it. Most people, they…" He cast about, searching for the right words. "They don't understand what happens when they take a vow. It's not something so easily broken by a…a signature, a piece of paper. It's something the universe considers law. You literally tie yourself to others, and the stronger the will behind the words, once spoken, determines how iron-clad that law is."

He studied them all in turn. " _You_ , Stark. Your connection to your wife can't simply be broken in a US court. Rogers, you and Agent Romanoff are nearly as tightly woven. Your relationships are evident all around you, if you know how to read them. I've been taught how to read these things. That vow between them, coupled with Darcy's mysterious abilities, brought him back from the dead, yes, or _nearly_ so. They've tied her to him now in this half-state they're both in. You won't be able to break it from this side. They have to break it from within."

Tony sighed. "And how do they _do_ that?"

Again, Strange shrugged. "Only they'll be able to figure that out. Whatever plane they're on determines the rules, just like the things I can do _here_ —" He snapped his fingers and a glowing symbol appeared there, a blue mandala that slowly faded, glittering, from view—"are determined by the laws of _this_ plane. You see what I'm saying?"

There was a moment of quiet as everyone considered this. Finally, Tony spoke, his voice low. "We're getting deeply philosophical here, and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it."

Steve slouched and tilted his head back against the wall behind him with a thunk.

"So, what do we do?" Bruce finally ask, straightening his glasses again.

Strange shook his head. "You make her comfortable. And you wait."

((()))

Darcy had to give it to HYDRA, really. _Grudgingly_.

Because seeing the Winter Soldier in CCTV footage, no matter how menacing, was really _nothing_ compared to standing in front of him.

She swallowed, staring into the empty eyes of her own husband.

But he wasn't her husband.

Not this stranger.

Her heart stammering in her chest, she took a step back, one hand held out to feel along the wall. "Jamie?"

He took a step toward her, cocking his head and glaring.

"It's _me_ , baby. Darcy?"

Not even a glimmer of recognition.

Not that she'd expected any. If her growing suspicion was right and they were both lost somewhere in his subconscious, like fucking _Inception_ , then this was certainly not the version of the boy she'd married.

But she had to _try_ ; she'd _married_ him, after all—or, at least, a _part_ of him.

It was really as though he'd stepped out of all that footage, all the way down to the tactical gear, the leather plated chest guard, and the combat boots. Even the eye black and his tousled hair…

He was a total phantom.

It was an entirely new sensation for Darcy, to look at him and feel something cold and tentative slither down her spine, but there it was, and she couldn't deny it.

 _Fear_.

Never. _Never_ before had she ever felt threatened by him, not once, not even the one time she'd been foolish enough to startle him in the middle of what had turned out to be a flashback and he'd wrapped a big hand around her throat.

It felt entirely _wrong_ , completely counter-intuitive to her, but she couldn't ignore the sensation of terror that lanced through her, setting her heart to racing as he slowly advanced on her position on the far side of the room.

The room itself was entirely bare but for that old, stone fireplace, complete with cold grate. There was a strange, muted light coming in from the single high window, and the walls were a blank white.

Her single avenue of escape was the door she still stood largely in front of, but while this version of her lover was vaguely terrifying, she also couldn't bring herself to flee just yet. "Jamie. C'mon. You _know_ me, baby. _Darcy_." She tried to smile but it was shaky on her lips as they refused to obey. "Your _girl_. Remember? I'm your girl. You call me that all the time."

But, of course, her mind supplied the reminder that _this_ Bucky Barnes— _The Asset_ —hadn't met her yet, would _never_ meet her, not truly. This was some tiny, tiny pocket of James Barnes' mind, a small sliver of his consciousness that the Russians had managed to bring to the fore and expand, until all that was left of the original boy had been rage and blind obedience.

White noise.

He took another step.

"Bucky," she tried as he advanced.

Nothing.

She tried Steve's tactic. " _James_. Your name is James— _Jamie_!"

He crossed to her and slammed his fist into the wall behind her head, a warning shot, surely, and though she flinched, she held her ground, wondering if she'd triggered something, plucked something out of the blaring in his mind.

She would not be scared off by this imposter, she would _not_.

His other fist—the metal one—careened in next, dangerously close to her head this time.

She jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.

Or maybe she would, after all.

Ducking as quickly as she could, she darted out under the cage of his arms and threw herself at the door.

A crackling noise behind her told her he'd damaged the wall.

With a tiny shriek, she darted out of the room with him in pursuit.

((()))

He was locked in.

Bucky sighed, staring at the door with mild trepidation.

He was inside his own head, apparently, and he was locked into a small, dark room.

How his subconscious had found it in itself to lock him somewhere was beyond him, but he'd learned to not question these things—the _hard_ way.

What was that movie called that Darcy had shown him? It was trippy and weird, something about lucid dreaming…?

 _Inception_.

Right.

"How the fuck can I be locked in my own head?" he muttered to himself, taking survey of the room. The walls were painted a dark gray and there were no windows. There was hard, concrete flooring, the single door, and one lonely chair in the corner.

He'd tipped in here blindly earlier in his escape of his sister, remembering that this had been his room as a child—but this was _not_ his room.

It was the same basic shape, yes, but he'd had a window and a small closet. The view had looked out onto the street, the chemist's below and across the street and the bustling of people going on their way.

He used to sit there while he read, tucked into a chair with a blanket on cold winter nights, and his mother used to scold him he'd catch a draft.

He sighed again, scowling around. Buried somewhere in a head like his was really the _last_ place he wanted to be. The _very_ _last_ _one_.

But, since the first was obviously unavailable—folded against Darcy's warm skin in their bed back home, or tucked beside her in a plush loveseat at their coffee shop—he'd have to fucking make do.

"I don't _fucking_ care what you like or don't like!" a female voice suddenly yelled into the eerie, atmospheric silence, and he jumped. "Who's life is it? Huh, buddy?!"

"Don't you take that tone with me!" came the reply, an older man, and with a decidedly fatherly bent. "I didn't raise you to talk to me like that!"

" _Raise_ me?! _Raise_ me?! You _asshole_ , you were barely around! I'll talk to you however I want to talk to you!" That voice. He'd know it anywhere.

He narrowed his eyes, wandering across the room to hover by the door. The mysterious altercation was definitely taking place in the hallway just outside.

But this was nothing he could remember, no memory of his, nothing he'd randomly overheard.

"I _provided_ for you! That's what fathers do!"

"Oh, you mean all those times you told me to go cry to someone else when I got pushed down on the playground? Or all those times you _didn't_ bandage my scraped knees? Oh, yeah, I remember those _real_ well."

Darcy.

Which meant—

"Darcy, you're being dramatic. All I'm saying is that it's the last time you call me Nathan. I don't want an argument." His tone had cooled.

Darcy's did as well, but her ire was by no means satisfied. "Then why the hell did you _start_ one?"

A deep, authoritative sigh. "I just don't think it's a good idea for you to go gallivanting off to live in Manhattan. That's all I'm saying. I have no idea what half-assed career you've been sifting through since college, but I think you're getting in over your head."

She snorted. "And _I_ think it's _hilarious_ that you still think I care about your opinion. And if I told you about my half-assed career, the CIA would show up the next day and wipe your memory like the fucking _Men in Black_."

A long, long silence. "Darcy. Please. None of your games, okay? What have you been doing? I heard you were in New Mexico—and there was that huge fire out there in the desert that no one knows _anything_ about. Then you just _happened_ to be in London last year when things went haywire? It's just…it's suspicious, and I'm worried you're getting in too deep."

If Bucky didn't know any better, he'd think Nathan sounded like he cared.

Of the conversations he had overheard, this was a first. It had always made him itch, listening to her talk to her father. Of course, before, he hadn't felt he had the right to say anything, not being formally introduced, but…

No matter how he'd been raised, he'd managed to jam the idea into his head that you treated a woman with respect, be she mother, daughter, or significant other. And once or twice it had taken everything in him not to snatch the phone from Darcy's grip, just from hearing her end of the conversation alone from out in the living room and down the hall.

"What happened to me playing games?" she snarked. "What, are you worried I'll find a guy that'll show you the door?"

He snorted at the irony. There were a whole handful of things he'd like to show Nathan if they ever met face to face. Even here, in this eerie dream space, his hackles came up.

A deep sigh. "I'm worried you'll find yet another one that'll take advantage of you and you'll go off into your head again. You've always been a bit of a dreamer, always lost in your imagination."

He said it like it was a bad thing.

"Nathan, for God's sake. I grew up in Jersey. I've been to Manhattan dozens of times. This is nothing new. You should be glad my internship resulted in a job."

"Is it a _paying_ one?"

"Less than I'd like, if I'm being honest, but it certainly has _potential_."

"Doing what?"

Another patient sigh. "I told you. I'm PA-ing for a scientist. It's cool. So are you gonna go now, so I can finish dinner?"

"And this new apartment…this place is _tiny_ , Darcy. It's a hole in the wall. You can commute. Live at home."

Darcy snorted. "With you and the woman-child? No, thanks. I'm good. I'm gonna fix this place up—maybe I'll even be able to bunk with Jane in her building. It's sweet digs, you should see the place! High Rise. Balconies. It's ridiculous."

"Oh, yeah? And what's his name?"

A short pause. "Who?"

"Darcy, please. You may hate me, but give me a small ounce of credit. The guy you've got your eye on. You've got that look on your face."

Bucky's heart fluttered in his chest.

But Darcy's voice was surprisingly small. "No one. There's…no one."

A short, sardonic, "Mm-hm. You wouldn't tell me even if there was, would you?"

Shocking him, she admitted it. To Nathan. Whom she hated. He was positive of this. "He's…different."

"Just like _Daniel_ was different?"

Bucky clenched his left hand into a fist, looking down as it whirred and clanked at the force of his grip.

"Daniel was no one," she said, still sounding meek.

It drew a lump to his throat and he wrapped his human hand around the doorknob, turning it ineffectually. It was still locked. He tugged, and it shook under his assault. "Darce?" he called, his voice cracking. He couldn't just leave her out there with the one man capable of tearing her down. "Darcy…baby…"

But he was met with silence.

Somehow, they were gone.

((()))

By the time Darcy had shot down another random, nondescript hallway, she realized she was no longer being followed. Breathing deep, she eyed the way she'd come, but slowed to a more wandering pace.

Okay, so clearly, Bucky's subconscious viewed her as a threat.

She stopped, stuck her hands on her hips, and huffed out a frustrated breath. How the hell was she supposed to _do_ this? She wasn't even sure what she'd _done_! Strange had been almost _deliberately_ vague, she was sure of it.

Although he'd been on the mark at least a little bit—she had no fucking clue, after all, how her abilities worked, or how she was pulling the strings. She just barely had some idea how to use the healing thing that had been thrust on her last spring, and even that seemed ridiculously faulty.

She gasped. "Max. Oh, shit."

She'd just have to hope that Tony realized what was happening.

((()))

" _What the actual fuck is happening_?!" Tony snarled, finally losing his patience and taking a swipe at the small engine in front of him on the lab table. It flew off the steel surface, catapulted across the room and shattered upon hitting the far wall, bursting into various small metal parts.

It echoed for a moment.

Breathless, he stared at the small dent he'd created, one part satisfied, once part ashamed.

Maybe Pepper was right: he was more of a control freak than he'd realized.

Because this out of control-ness? It was driving him out of his fucking mind.

He had no idea what to do, and the idleness was threatening to snap what remained of his sanity, which, he admitted, wasn't great on a good day.

There had to be something, _something_ he could do, _something_ that was useful, something that made up for Darcy lying unconscious in the next room over.

He blinked, something occurring to him. "Hey, J, is there any activity in Buck's place?"

A pause. _I detect one lifeform_ , he replied, curtly, as usual. _It appears to be the canine that was brought into the Tower last week, regardless of your rule concerning pets, Mr. Stark._

He smirked. God, the spitfire would be the end of him. How Buck handled her was a mystery to him, really. "And?"

 _Security footage places the canine on the couch within the Barnes' residence, and if the bowl on the kitchen floor is to be taken as its food supply, it is empty. The canine does appear distressed._

He sent the ceiling a look. " _Barnes' residence_?"

Another pause, this one longer, as though the program was waffling on whether or not to confess to something. _Given Darcy's condition in the lab, Sir, I took the liberty of digitally filing the paperwork she had left out, lest it be forgotten. The Manhattan Clerk's Office put it through this morning, Sir. The details will filter down and I am able to follow up with the Post Office and other institutions on an as-needed basis._

Something squiggled uncomfortably in Tony's chest, but he decided not to study it too closely just then. The phrase 'Catch a break' was starting to haunt him.

With a growl, he hit the lights and stomped out of the lab, perfectly aware he was acting like a child, but not giving a rat's ass. He didn't even bother speaking in the elevator, and JARVIS knew what he wanted.

The apartment was eerie without anyone in it and he stood in the doorway for a moment, staring around.

Blue blanket half folded on the couch. Records shuffled through, Andy Gibb on the very top. He smiled, picturing Darcy dancing around in her favorite casual attire—leggings and a too-big t-shirt—to 'I Just Want To Be Your Everything'. The tea box was closed on the kitchen counter. Yoga mat rolled up and propped in the corner. _The Great Gatsby_ on the coffee table, the edges foxed—clearly a favorite.

"Gotta be Buck," he muttered to himself, coming in and closing the door behind him. There were new photographs hung as well, and against his better judgment, he crossed to them to look.

Candid shots, mostly, one taken at the museum, one with Bucky rolling his eyes indulgently, and he could hear Darcy begging him to hold still _for just one picture, she promised._

That shot, the one he'd taken, that day. He'd spent the whole afternoon, after they'd quietly exchanged vows, sneaking about, determined to get a good picture of them, something natural, something that fit them and wasn't a set-up.

Thinking back on it, now, he figured he'd maybe projected a little onto them, turned that protective instinct into something simple and easy, like taking a picture of them as they really were, rather than the way everyone _thought_ they saw them could somehow make things easier for them.

Darcy's head on his shoulder.

Buck in just his shirtsleeves.

Her in that beautiful dress.

That certain line to Buck's back that told you he was truly relaxed, something he so rarely was.

They'd clearly liked it, if they'd hung it up. How appropriate for someone like Bucky—a wedding photograph that didn't show his face, and yet, somehow, managed to project a level of intimacy that many formal photographs lacked.

Tony would've been proud, had he been trying to do it that way. It had been an accident, really. Funny how things like that tended to work out.

His heart clenched, and he turned away to find the dog on the couch—Max—looking sadly at him, blinking sleep-crusted eyes and thumping his tail submissively against the cushion.

"Hey, bud," he said. "Max, right?"

The tail thumped again.

"It's alright. We're gonna fix ya up, okay? Don't you worry about a thing."

The tail thumped twice more, harder, and Tony took this as an invitation to approach.

"Don't look so dejected. She didn't desert you—she, just, uh…had a prior engagement. She'll be right back, okay?"

Max whined softly and army crawled across the cushions as Tony sat down, sliding on his belly to show deference.

Tony sighed. "It's alright, little dude. It's alright." He reached out and scratched behind his ears, finding the fur there thick and soft.

The dog took a deep, contented breath, huffed, and laid his chin on Tony's thigh. He sighed. "Well, shit."

This was part of why he didn't allow pets, this, right here, the attachment growing now. "You hungry? You've gotta be starving."

He fed him after going through the cabinets a few times, gave him fresh water, then a small little bacon treat and when he left the apartment, allowed the dog to follow.

But not before he folded the blanket neatly on the footstool, slid the bookmark back into Bucky's book, and set it atop it, where it could wait for its master to return.

Because he would—if Tony had anything to say about it.

((()))

"Rebecca, I'm asking you a question: were you or were you _not_ out past your curfew last night?" a man's voice was snarling around the next bend.

Darcy, edging around the corner, flinched at the cruelty in the voice.

There was no answer; just a helpless sniffle.

She scowled. Becca again, his sister, so young and pretty, like a ballerina in a music box.

Next was the unmistakable sound of skin striking skin and she stuck her head around the corner to peek into the open room—this one done in pink, like a girl's room ought to be. It was sparsely decorated, but there were signs of life all about. Books, a hand-woven doll with yellow hair, a bed with a red and pink woolen blanket.

But Becca refused to cry out. She just looked down into her lap, where her hands were folded, and said, "Yes."

George Barnes nodded his satisfaction and immediately his hands went to his belt buckle. "That's what I thought. Out gallivanting with that Melnitz boy down the street? He's _dirt_ , girl. I'll not have you toying with a Jewish boy. They're thieves, rob you blind—and more than your money."

Becca flinched, but didn't reply.

Darcy thought she looked perhaps seventeen—old enough to want to know what love was. And the climate of the time was less than friendly to certain immigrants. She remembered that much from her history lessons.

"Wait," a familiar voice spoke up from the hallway, and Darcy jumped, glancing over her shoulder to find Bucky there again, this time much older than in the last memory, very nearly the man she'd fallen so helplessly in love with.

Here was Bucky as he'd been.

A fine young man, strapping and determined to prove himself. A little scruff on his jaw, his eyes the blue of his mother's, protective older brother and shamed son. "It was my fault."

"No, Jimmy!" Becca insisted, her face paling further as she finally looked up.

Darcy saw now that they shared the same straight nose, the same sensual mouth.

George scowled, looking between his children as they shared a silent argument. "Well?"

"I was out with Mickey, just like you sa—"

"It was _my_ fault. I told her I'd meet her to help her with her homework, but I got hung up at the garage," he said, speaking over her, his eyes hard on George, daring him, challenging him.

So, by Darcy's reckoning, they'd already had their ultimate row and he'd already moved out with Steve, had already started working at the garage and the diner.

George huffed. "Figures. You're always out gallivanting like a miscreant."

Bucky took a step closer, framing himself in the doorway, the warm heat of his left shoulder pressing against Darcy's, and she stared at the strangeness of it for a moment, no metal in sight, no red star—this was her husband, intact and whole.

But haunted all the same.

And he hadn't even bloodied his hands yet.

"Go, Becca," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

Darcy almost snorted—so he'd had that Winter Soldier voice long before he'd become the Winter Soldier, then. That hardness was hard to ignore, and it was clear that he'd been more a father to Becca than anything else, and certainly more than their _actual_ father.

The girl hesitated only a moment before she darted for the door, her face filled with guilt and torment as she pressed a hand to her reddening cheek.

Darcy—unsure where her place was in these metaphysical visions, jerked back and aside.

"Go on," he murmured lowly as she paused in the hall, his voice softer, but his face still hard for George's benefit. "Mickey's got some ice waiting for you."

"We doing this or not, boy?" George snapped.

Darcy flinched, watching Becca flee down the hall to the top of the stairs, and disappear.

Bucky leveled his father with a calm, neutral stare. "You ever get tired of this, Old Man?"

George sighed, and Darcy was close enough—and lost enough—that she could smell the reeking cheap booze. "You and me had an agreement—or have you forgotten?" He tugged the belt off his waist and coiled the end of it around his hand once, twice. "You take your sister's lashes—that's your choice, you wanna answer for her. If it were me, the only way to teach her a lesson's with leather—just like you."

Bucky sneered. "Didn't work, though, did it?"

George snorted. "Don't I know it?" And he gestured with this chin to the chair Becca had only just vacated. "Go on. You made your bed."

Without a word, Bucky unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, making it clear that it wasn't just The War that had helped him bulk up. All that work with cars at the garage and boxing on Friday nights had given his chest and shoulders plenty of definition, and the tight line of his abdominals made Darcy's mouth go dry all over again. His hair was short, shorn like the soldier he hadn't become yet, and she wondered what year this was supposed to have been.

Giving George a glare, he tossed the shirt over the back of the chair and straddled it, his body language deceptively casual as he set his hands on the back of it.

They worked in silence, the only sound the crack of George's belt as it struck Bucky's muscular back, again and again, raising long, red welts on the skin there.

Darcy's heart was pounding, and she was frozen in place, perfectly aware that this had happened—at least in some respect, given Bucky's hints of it—but still entirely horrified to see it first-hand.

Bucky didn't give an ounce of acknowledgment about it at all, but for the occasional clench of his hands against the chair back as the leather struck home.

By the time George had finished, he'd drawn blood and Darcy's face was wet with tears.

But a hand on her shoulder drew her up sharp, and as George slid his bloody belt back on, she turned, knowing who she'd find behind her.

She felt, rather than saw, the scene dissolve behind her as she stared up into the ghostly face of her own lover. "You never told me about this," she finally said, and her voice was raw and ragged, husky with feeling.

A flicker—she was sure she saw it—above the Winter Soldier's mask.

"Did you feel like you _couldn't_? Or was it lost somewhere, buried under…everything else?"

He drew his metal hand back, sharply, like she'd burned him, and stared at her.

"It was, wasn't it?" she kept on, staring hard into those fathomless eyes. "It was totally buried? You've always been honest with me, sometimes to a fault. You did this, for Becca?"

He took a step back.

She huffed out a soft laugh. "I thought _my_ father was awful. Compared to yours, I have nothing to complain about. And you wouldn't, you would you?" She raised a brow. "It was just…how it was, then, wasn't it? It was okay to beat your children with your own fucking belt."

He took another step.

She mirrored him. " _Why_ won't you speak to me?" She advanced on him, trying to push down her fear at his hard stance. "I _know_ you can—I know you _did_ , to Pierce, to your STRIKE team. Why won't you speak to _me_? I'm…I'm _me_." She reached toward him with shaking hands.

He jerked back.

She implored him. "It's _me_. It's Darcy. You _know_ me, you—" She stopped herself, biting off the words ' _love me'_ before they could spill out, and they burned like acid on her tongue, aching and digging a hollow pit in her stomach. She sighed, swallowing back the sudden, homesick tears, the well of longing that was slowly rising in her for the very man she was standing in front of—or, at the very least, his shadow. "You _know_ me. I'm your Darcy, I'm your _girl_. Remember? You used to call me that, all the time. _Dollface_." She tried to smile, but it was watered down and the tears that had been hovering since she'd stepped into the scene spilled over, and down her cheeks.

He flinched and took another rapid step back.

She followed. "I'm no threat. You don't have to…be all…Winter Soldier-y on me, baby, it's _me_. Won't you let me in?"

Without any warning, he lunged forward, shoving her back from him, eyes gone hard again. She wondered what she'd said that had turned the table as she stared at him, knocked breathless by his outburst.

He snarled—actually snarled—and murmured something low and not in English. The hard sound of Russian consonants bit the air and she flinched back this time, away from him.

"You _know_ me," she insisted. "You've known me for almost _two years_. You've seen me _naked_ more times than I can count, for God's sake. I mean, you can't any more _real_ than _that_."

He just continued to stare at her, slowly advancing again, like a caged animal, prowling at those who dared come too close to his cage.

She huffed, and held up her hands. "Alright. _Fine_. I'm _going_." And she sauntered off, giving him a helpless look over her shoulder as she went.


	25. Chapter 25: Come Back to Me

**Chapter 25** **: Come Back to Me**

 **Summary:** **Inception. That is all.**

 **Notes:** **Whoo. Thanks, guys, for the feedback! Seriously, I live for the comments section! lol** **Anyway. I'll leave you guys to it. We're on the second-to-last installment, here, so again, if you have ideas or anything, please let me know! Love you all! Tell me how you like!** **Sarah** **PS-Don't own Marvel, don't own Inception, and the title is from the David Cook song of the same name. LOVE that song!**

((()))

He felt like he'd dozed off.

 _Could_ you doze off if you were…wherever he was?

He had to assume, at this point, that he was unconscious somewhere, for this all to have unfolded, though his memory was spotty and he couldn't remember much.

The last thing in his head was making love to Darcy the morning she went to talk to Bruce and Tony. They'd given them some pretty awful news. She'd gone for a walk, alone, to clear her head.

Then…nothing. Various scenes, pacing in front of huge windows, a beautiful sunset, a catatonic Darcy, and making tea, these things all formed a collage of things he'd done, but they quickly faded to gray in his mind's eye.

Just _nothing_.

This, conversely, was _not_ nothing.

This was very, very _far_ from nothing.

If the small pieces he had really spoke for anything, he could swear he was in Central Park.

More specifically, he was in front of the duck pond off of 104th. In fact, there was the bridge, and the rock he'd sat on with Darcy—

And just like that, there they were, in front of him, the memory coming up out of the mist of his mind, and he stood there, an audience of one on the scene they'd made, that last time he'd asked her to lunch. Just before things had really blossomed, before they'd exploded into bright Technicolor, warming him all the way down to his toes.

When he'd finally worked up the nerve to kiss her.

"You suppose they think about important things?" Darcy spoke, echoing the memory in his head, one of the clear ones that he could recall with stunning detail.

He cherished it, so it was bright and sparkling in his mind, a small treasure he kept close to the chest.

He'd married an absolutely, _stunningly_ beautiful woman. But that day, he remembered her looking so breathtaking that he'd felt barely able to speak.

"What's sorts of important things?" he asked from beside her.

She smiled, her chestnut hair lifting in the soft breeze, and readjusted her weight on the rock, smoothing the material of her daisy-patterned skirt. "You know: what they're supposed to be doing. What the point of it all is. That sort of stuff."

He smirked at her, lifting an eyebrow. "You're wondering whether or not ducks have philosophical quandaries?"

She snorted, reaching out to shove his shoulder, and her hand stayed there, warm on the cotton of his blue v-neck, her bright yellow nail polish refracting the sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees surrounding the pond. "It's called _making conversation_!" she teased, bumping his shoulder with her own and edging closer to his reclined position on the rock beside her. "You know, something you're going to have to master, now that you've returned to the land of the living?"

And she smiled at him, quirking an eyebrow, and he remembered being mesmerized by the sweeping cat's eye of her coal-black liner. "You're gonna have to walk me through it; I'm probably pretty rusty."

She shrugged. "Totally okay. I am here. For you." She giggled, leaning forward to toss another piece of bread from her unfinished sandwich into the water, where a mallard quickly paddled over to snatch it up. She paused. "How'd it go with the doc this morning?"

He watched his own shoulders tense. "Fine. She told me the nightmares are normal." He snorted. "Because dreaming of yourself with your hands around someone's throat is totally normal."

Completely nonplussed by this confession, Darcy leaned into his shoulder, then, full-bodied. "They'll fade. You'll see. It'll all fade until it's just foggy half-knowledge." Her voice softened. "Soon you'll be standing up straight. I know it."

He sighed, looking away, squinting at the far edge of the water, where a group of teenagers were laughing and attempting to splash each other in the muck. "Half-knowledge isn't a side-effect of a photographic memory, Darce."

She didn't try to argue with what she'd known to be true. She'd just smiled. "I like when you call me that."

He looked at her, their faces so close he could've pulled the trigger then, already, if the moment had felt just right. "What?"

"Darce. It sounds sweet."

He flushed lightly, the tips of his ears going pink, and picked up another piece of bread, tossing it into the water. It floated for a moment before a duck came upon it. Then another appeared. Then another.

And another.

They started squawking at each other, battling it out, nipping at each other with their beaks for the treat that would quickly lose its buoyancy.

Darcy started to laugh, the sound like freedom in his ears, and he smiled.

Then, one of them decided to climb onto shore, eyeing them determinedly, like he was sure he'd get his share.

"Oh, God!" Darcy cackled, edging back a bit. "Take it, just don't bite me."

But the duck ignored her and made a beeline straight for Bucky, quickly followed by another, and they started to hover, standing there and giving him beady eyes for more food.

Darcy was giggling now, uncontrollably, as they quacked and stared.

Bucky sighed, but edged back, looking apprehensive. "Shoo."

She snorted. "There you go! Just what you wanted: they're not afraid of you!"

"Ducks weren't exactly what I had in mind." He took up the bread.

They closed in on him, getting much closer than he expected, completely domesticated.

Darcy scrambled up. "I don't want any duck poo on my new skirt!" She paused. "And I just realized how terribly girly that sounded! I take it back!" She took half the bread from his hand and started tearing it and tossing it out at them.

They gathered, pecking it up and downing it quickly.

"They're getting violent," he observed.

Darcy snorted, tossing out another piece. "Yeah, maybe they're rabid. We should think about making a strategic retreat."

He nodded, smirking. "We only have so much bread."

And then it was gone and they were standing there, watching all the ducks munching quietly on their prizes.

She slid her small hand around his wrist and tugged. " _Now_!" But her ballet flat caught on a rough edge of the rock and she teetered uncertainly.

Bucky slid his human arm easily around her waist and steadied her, pulling her against him.

She gasped, catching herself up, her hands on his chest. She blinked her large eyes up at him, the blue of them making his mind up for him before he could think twice. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you engineered tha—"

But she didn't get to finish, the rest of her accusation lost in the press of his mouth to hers, the scruff on his jaw pressing into her soft skin.

She made a soft noise of surprise deep in her throat and angled her mouth against him.

The mewling sound did things to him that had him clamping down again on all his self control.

It had been a long time— _decades_ , in fact—and that chaste kiss had been the hardest thing he'd done since waking from his menacing slumber. Hard, because it was everything he wanted, but it also served to illustrate how long his body had been denying his attraction to her.

It was as if all his testosterone flooded his synapses at once and he tightened his arm around her waist, so desperate to follow the flare of want and need where it directed him.

But he couldn't.

This moment was too tentative and new, too sweet with warm affection for rough urges. With a slow, deep breath, he pulled back to find her looking up at him with those big, doe eyes, the color high and soft in her cheeks, a little breathless, her heart pounding against his ribs.

He swallowed thickly and looked down at her with what he was sure was undisguised want.

She smiled. "Took you long enough, Soldier Boy."

And he laughed, the sound bubbling up from inside, heady with relief.

"Bucky!"

He blinked, snapping from the vision to look around.

Like something out of _Alice in Wonderland_ , there was a door, a random, wooden door set in the side of the trees to his left, right in the center of the scene, as though it had always been there.

" _Buck_?!"

And Darcy's voice was coming from it.

Tentatively, he edged toward it, frowning, but unable to push down that same flash of want and need now, presented with her voice, so near.

" _Jamie_?!"

He came to it and stared at the wood grain for a moment, the door tickling at some familiarity in his mind.

"Jamie, baby—c'mon, where _are_ you?"

That was all he needed, a thin note of fear in her voice, and he turned the knob and opened the door—

To find he was still in his old room, and he was standing in the doorway to the closet.

((()))

For a while, Darcy wandered around aimlessly, opening and closing doors with random whimsy. They were all different.

One was clearly set up for George Barnes'…funeral…things.

One was a living room that looked like something out of the Twenties, all with antique pieces, furniture and an old radio, and piles of newspapers, all with historical headlines. She'd stood there for five minutes, openmouthed, studying the atmosphere, the history of her own lover, hidden in the past, behind bookshelves and memories, bloody handprints and the tang of metal.

Then another, softer room, with barely anything in it but for a few books, a worn baseball and glove, a pennant flag, small bed and dresser set, a pitcher and ewer, and a trench coat, very large. Too large, made for a grown man, and she wondered if this was a memory of Steve's room, Steve as he'd been, small and poor.

Then there was a book shop, tiny, with books piled haphazardly on every flat surface, all marked for nickel and dime prices. If she thought she could get away with it, she'd have swiped the old, molding copy of _The Great Gatsby_ and stuck it in her pocket. She was still—mysteriously—in the clothes she'd last been in when she'd stolen into the lab and fallen asleep in the bed beside Bucky's unconscious form.

Some rooms she'd rather not have stumbled across.

Metal.

 _Terrifying_ metal instruments.

She opened one at one point to find absolutely nothing in the steel-lined room but a chair.

 _The_ Chair.

Her heart in her throat, she'd slammed the door behind her, and she could swear someone was yelling in pain, distant and echoing, and she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to keep from flinching at the memory of Bucky's terrors.

Once or twice, she thought she spied him—or, rather, The Winter Soldier version of him—stalking ahead of her, as though searching for something in particular, but when she tried to follow him, he disappeared around a corner ahead and was gone by the time she got there.

Just how many fucking doors were in this house?!

She paused at one point to backtrack in her mind, and remembered that she was wandering through Bucky's maze-like memory.

Of course. There were dozens and dozens of doors, containing any multitude of horrors. The Winter Soldier was bound to have slides—like film—all flowing throughout, like Sherlock's Mind Palace.

And she was the rat. And she was lost.

And it only got worse from there.

She opened her twelfth random door—she'd been counting—and stumbled across a dreary scene.

Bucky sat—very near the age he'd been in the last awful vision, perhaps a bit younger—in the far corner of the room. This room was neatly furnished, with tools set out beside a worktable—

Where a woman's body was laid out.

She actually jerked to a shuddering stop, her flats squeaking on the worn hardwood floor.

He looked like he'd been slapped as he curled himself as deeply into the corner as he could, staring at the woman with tired, bloodshot eyes. Mournful eyes.

Seeing this vaguely familiar look, she forced herself to study the dead woman clearly waiting to be arranged in her funeral dress.

She was pretty; hopelessly gaunt, but pretty, with cornflower hair that seemed somehow familiar, and soft, delicate features that reminded Darcy of a music box ballerina.

Sarah.

It had to be.

It not only explained his clear desire to be as far away from her as possible, but was undeniable when she finally settled on the woman's eyes—open in death and a beautiful blue.

 _God_ , did Steve look like her. The same hair, the same eyes, and a similar shape to the mouth that Darcy felt sure lent itself to the same gentle, affectionate smile.

From what little Bucky had told her, she'd gone unexpectedly—though she'd been sickly most of her life, like her son. Though the TB had been latent in her for years, her last winter had been brutal and fast, withering her down to nothing.

She felt certain that he and Steve had sat vigil over her the night before as she was carried off, and now here Bucky sat alone, holding vigil over her in death.

She'd only ever seen him distraught enough to cry once.

But the look on his face hadn't changed.

His eyes were red and his face gaunt and pulled in, milk pale.

His hair was a little longer and a lock had fallen loose over his eyes, but he didn't reach up to brush it back. He just sat, staring at the woman that Darcy just knew had been more mother to him than his own, legs pulled up on the chair in a defensive, submissive posture. His shirt was loose and unbuttoned at the collar and his scuffed shoes were worn at the soles.

Rather than being creeped out by the body, she felt herself drawn to him across the room, and she was beside him before she'd decided to move, setting her hand on his warm left shoulder. "I'm sorry, baby," she murmured.

He flinched, like he could almost hear her, but didn't otherwise acknowledge her.

She frowned, puzzled by this new development, and wondered how exactly this link she'd somehow formed with him really worked—

But then the door was swinging open and banging on the far wall. "Alright, Jimmy?" George Barnes asked.

It was Darcy's turn to flinch, for the question wasn't asked in a warm and comforting way, but rather in the style of someone slurred by drink.

Bucky flinched again, eyes finally leaving Sarah's body to pin George to the wall across the room. He did not speak.

"You ready to take care of this, kid?"

"How drunk are you, pop?" he asked then, his voice raw but projecting, as though he gathered his nerve like so many warm blankets around him, the presence of his father steeling his spine.

George snickered as he swayed. "Just drunk enough." But he tipped a bit, catching himself as he closed the door behind him. "How 'bout you?"

Bucky rolled his eyes and slid down off his bench, not looking at Sarah's body on the table. "You can't even do _this_ sober?"

George ignored him.

But he persisted. "Seriously, pop, you can't even take care of _Sarah_ without a flask on your hip?"

Finally George paused and blinked down at the woman, then up at his son. " _Who_?"

Bucky's face went white in anger. " _'Who'_? We've lived down the street from her for _years_ , pop. _Sarah_. And _Steve_?"

George frowned. "The scrawny kid?"

Bucky started laughing, low at first, and with a slightly hysterical air, as he pulled a hand down his face. "Yes."

The drunkard pointed. "And this is his ma?"

His son took a deep, deep breath. "You've known her for _years_ , pop. The _least_ you could do is prepare her with steady hands."

George stilled, as though finally coming to some sort of understanding. "You can always do it, you want to, kid," he suggested, his tone curdling around the edges.

Bucky flinched. "I was hoping I could…help." He sighed. "But if you can't even stay sober—"

"That's enough, kid. I ain't gonna stand here and listen to you—"

"That the point—you're _barely_ standing!" Bucky's voice rose as he interrupted. "Go upstairs and sleep it off. I'll do this."

George snorted. "Oh, you _will_ , will ya? You could never stomach it before, sonny."

Bucky's jaw tightened. "I can _stomach_ it just fine. What I could never stomach was the way you did it like a _machine_ —and now you do it like a _beast_ ," he snapped, glaring down into his father's face, half a head shorter than him.

That did it. George found enough steadiness to shove him back a step.

Bucky caught himself up on the table.

"You don't talk to me like that, boy," he threatened. "You wanna do that, you get outta my house. You always been a lousy son, it's about time you got outta my sight. I can set up the dead broad myself."

But Bucky moved too fast for Darcy to even follow, and before she knew it, his fist had swung and George was sprawled on the floor, eyes wide in shock, his jaw reddening and his lip bleeding.

There was a charged moment of silence as they stared at each other, Bucky breathing hard, color high in his cheeks, where it always pooled when he was upset. " _Nothing I'd like better_ ," he snarled.

Slowly, George pulled himself to his feet, levering himself on the table. He glanced down at Sarah, then spat a mouthful of blood onto the wood slats of the floor, glaring at his son with a muted, drunken anger. "Then you handle the dame. And then get outta my house."

He turned, skulked across the room again, and then it shook as he slammed the door behind him.

For a long moment, she watched Bucky stare down at Sarah, breathless and pale. He shook out his hand, and she saw it shook as he set it back down again, his knuckles bright red.

She stood staring at him, this younger, softer version of him, but still with those same traits peeking through. It was akin to déjà vu, and she narrowed her gaze, tracing his blue eyes, his cropped hair, and the familiar expression on his face: all his wheels turning.

It was odd. This was clearly _Before_ Bucky, _Then_ Bucky, compared to _Her_ Bucky, and that she was watching him _become_ Her Bucky, watching all the things that had molded him.

And at the same time, he was exactly the same, fundamentally unchanged.

He was a familiar _stranger_ , a phantom of the man she'd married.

She was about to open her mouth and try to communicate again, sure that some corner of his mind was aware of her presence, that they were sharing some strange sort of dreamscape, but a shadow passed behind her, muting the light in the room, and she spun, catching a sliver of bright vibranium flashing past the doorway.

She took off, darting out the door to leave that version of Bucky to mourn in peace, and followed his alter ego out into the hallway. "Oh, no you don't, James Barnes," she muttered.

He was halfway down the hall, his left hand clenched into an iron fist at his side.

" _Jamie_!" she snapped, starting to lose her patience with the whole endeavor. She'd stay here—wherever ' _here'_ was precisely—for as long as it took to get her man back—but that didn't mean she wasn't going to have some words for The Sorcerer Supreme when she got back to—wherever ' _there'_ was precisely. She was suspicious that he'd been deliberately vague in his encouragement and if she was right, she did _not_ appreciate this trippy wild goose chase. " _Jamie_!"

There was a telltale hitch in The Winter's Soldier's step, but he didn't stop. Taking that as progress—she'd take what she could get—she bounded after him. "Jamie, _damn_ _it_!"

She trailed him for what felt like forever as he stalked down hallways, through doors—that led to more hallways—and even down hallways she was suspicious shouldn't really exist, passing through walls and barriers that only served to drive home that she was in the maze of someone's subconscious, rather than an actual building.

She was sure, after all, that hers looked—if not the same—then very similar, with, perhaps, a few less twists and turns.

One such hidden room, tucked away and seemingly difficult to find, put her in a front row seat to their first night together, and she blushed, picking out different things she hadn't noticed then, on the inside of the moment.

Her face was pale rather than flushed, which usually meant she was nervous.

She didn't remember feeling directly nervous; in fact, she'd marveled at how relaxed she'd been. It had been a long time—a drop in the bucket compared to him—but she'd been more than ready to end her draught that night and so elated that things were falling into place for them.

It had helped that he was capable of lighting her on fire like she'd never been before. She liked to joke about it whenever he brought it up, but he was right; she wasn't always comfortable, given her upbringing, discussing deep matters of the heart. But she knew he was right; _of course_ she knew he was right.

There was a huge, huge difference between sleeping with someone, and sleeping with someone you _loved_. And she'd clung to him _desperately_ , her heart pounding out a sure rhythm in a tattoo against his own, tying them together.

Like Strange had said: people didn't always understand how actions could create ties, how words, spoken in the right order, could bind you to someone irrevocably, no matter what happened.

She'd suspected it of herself long before that night, but that night had made it clear to her that, no matter what happened, no matter what _had_ happened, she wasn't going anywhere.

It was too late for her.

It was etched in stone, etched into her heart.

She watched him closely, studying the softness of him, so gentle with her, like she was a China doll.

And his hands were shaking—just barely—but they were shaking. But the soft passion of him was evident, the way he moved telegraphing not only his affection, but the fact that he _finally_ —after decades and decades—felt alive again.

But watching him move from the other side was seriously doing things to her, so she forced herself to turn away—her face heated and her throat thick—and keep going, trailing after him at a short distance.

She passed another fight between him and George, culminating in yelling and a shattering bottle of something clearly past 50% proof.

She passed a strange scene of a playground, children running around, swinging on swings, yelling and joyful, in the middle of Manhattan on a cold winter day.

A gym. A boxing match.

She sprinted— _literally_ —through a train car, her breathing ragged as she pretended not to notice the wind rushing through the destroyed door.

Their tiny apartment, the heater in the corner clanking uncertainly as Steve read in the chair beside it, wrapped up tight in a quilt.

A garage, loud with engine noise and repair.

A diner at evening rush.

A young girl—Becca—crying and yelling, and begging him not to go, her terror that he wouldn't come back.

She flinched away from a scene from long ago, the dark of night, the smell of gunpowder and mud, sweat and blood, and fear—the trenches, six inches deep in water. That one she had absolutely no desire to study any further than she had to, and she scurried after The Winter Soldier as they passed through it, glad for his rapid pace.

Feeling small and sad at these little pieces of his life, she tried again, her voice smaller than she anticipated, reaching out for him the only way she knew how. It had always worked in the past, when she needed him desperately, and he'd always been so warm and comforting with her.

Everything she'd grown to never expect.

"Jamie?"

This time, he paused, stopping in the middle of an empty room this time, hardwood floors and chipping paint on the walls. She wondered idly if these empty rooms were stubborn memories, things he had yet to bring to the surface that were still buried and forgotten.

She chewed on her lip. "I _know_ you recognize me. You _have_ to. I'm…I'm _me_. I'm _in_ here." She felt foolish, gesturing around.

He turned to look at her, and the menace had gone from his lined eyes, melted into uncertainty.

"It's like you're leading me in circles."

He flinched.

She approached him, slowly, making no sudden movements.

He was totally still, watching her with defenseless eyes.

"Won't you let me in?" she murmured, reaching out for his arm.

But before she could make contact, he jerked away, starting off again.

She hadn't been prepared for how much that would sting. She stood there, her palm pressing into her sternum, sure that the pain in her chest was all in her imagination but unable to quell it.

But he stopped at the far end of the room, and glanced back, once, over his shoulder in a vaguely imploring way, as though asking her if she was coming or not.

Lurching, she went after him.

When he opened the door to the next room, though, she gasped as she peered inside.

((()))

There was a door set into the far wall.

It had been a long time since he'd seen his childhood home, but Bucky was fairly positive his room had only had the two.

So this third one, then…

Apparently, magically appearing doors were a thing now. Sighing, he went through it, somehow sure that this was another hoop he was required to jump through.

He came out into their kitchen.

Their empty kitchen.

But wait, no…it wasn't empty.

He stood on the entry mat as Darcy dropped her purse, crossed the room, opened the freezer, and pulled out the bottle of good vodka she kept up there.

Then she snatched a shot glass from the far cabinet, poured one out, and threw it back, hard and fast.

She winced, but poured another.

Then another.

Alarmed, he glanced around for some clue as to what memory he'd stumbled into, listening as Darcy's breathing grew faster and faster, then turned to gasping, then hiccupping, before she broke into desperate sobs.

She backed into the cabinets opposite the kitchen island, and slid down to the floor, folding in on herself as she cried her heart out on the tile.

His chest tightening, he crossed to the DIY board Darcy had made early after her move into the apartment, where important things were stuck, concert tickets; ideas; business cards; and a small calendar.

Late last February.

When he'd been taken by HYDRA.

He stood there, blinking for a long moment, staring down at her, curled into herself on the floor as hard, wracking sobs shook her small body, the false sunlight refracting off her new engagement ring.

Something rippled through him, something uncomfortable, something foreign. She'd mentioned that she'd fallen apart pretty hard, but…she hadn't mentioned this. The urge to comfort her was painful, and more painful was the knowledge that she was crying over him.

No one had cried over him in…ever? Becca, maybe?

On and on it went, too. It felt, to him, like she cried for hours, and when he reached out to touch her, his hands went right through her like he was nothing more than a phantom.

That was when he noticed the pictures.

There were photographs all over the walls, pinned up with thumbtacks.

Mouth open in surprise—this was not what their walls looked like—he stood and followed them around the space, cataloguing each one and surprised to find they were all of him.

Smiling.

Eating.

A few of him sleeping, looking more peaceful than he just about ever felt.

A few of him laughing, and one with Darcy's hand in the shot as she reached over to tug his baseball cap low over his eyes.

All of him.

Every photograph in the space was of him.

He blinked, confused.

"Don't think I don't know what this is about."

He jumped, spinning to find that Darcy had stood, and she was staring right at him— _through_ him, it felt like.

He stared.

"Because I know _exactly_ what this is about. All _this_?" She gestured around at the photographs, tears still damp on her cheeks. "You still don't think you're good enough."

He opened his mouth, stunned silent.

But she cut him off. "No, don't even try to bullshit me, Barnes."

They stared at each other, like a challenge, and he wasn't about to take the first shot, a bit of déjà vu tickling his subconscious at the thought of their last—and _only_ —fight.

She squared off. "You still think of yourself as a monster—don't you?"

Again, he opened his mouth, but wasn't sure what to say.

" _They took away your will power, Jamie_ ," she insisted, her beautiful face hard, like marble.

He longed to brush away that stray tear and marveled that he could be homesick for her when she was standing right in front of him—or some version of her, anyway.

"They _stripped_ you. You didn't do any of that of your own free will. You were a _puppet_."

He swallowed, looking away. "I know. But I still did it," he murmured.

" _I. Don't. Care_ ," she snapped, glaring at him. "I don't _fucking_ care anymore. And neither should you. It's _over_. You can't take it back. So why continue to torture yourself over it?!"

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then opened it, his throat tightening at the familiar guilt. "Darce…"

"You're still letting them control you, letting _it_ control you. You're carrying around this guilt, and it's weighing you down," she continued, coming around the kitchen island. "You think you don't deserve to be a part of SHIELD, a part of something _good_?"

He swallowed it back again, unable to look at her. "I'm no superhero, Darcy."

She scoffed, looking away and shaking her head. "I don't care if you're a superhero—I don't care if you're a _garbage man_ , Bucky! Fuck Maria. Fuck Jane, and fuck Wanda, and fuck anyone else if they're so fucking _stupid_ they don't understand."

She approached and reached up to cup his face, her small hands icy cold as she looked deep into him with those clear eyes. "All _this_?" She gestured at the photos again. "This is how I see you. Just a guy. It sounds seriously cheesy, but I don't give a fuck if you're a superhero, Jamie—as long as you're _my_ hero. That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past two years."

Before he could reply—or even comprehend what she'd just said—there was a thunderous knock on the door.

He snapped around toward it, but then—

The room was gone, their apartment was gone.

He was back in his old room, alone.

((()))

Darcy wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Another scene from The War, probably, maybe a memory from last New Year's, as they'd rushed through Manhattan, or another disturbing go-round with Alexander Pierce.

But it certainly wasn't this.

Her tiny apartment.

The one she'd holed up in when she'd first come here, the one she'd hated with everything in her up until last January, when she'd kissed it goodbye and watched Buck, Tony, and Steve haul her boxes into the moving van, and relocated to Avengers Tower.

There was her old ratty couch, second-hand from one of her college roommates at NYU. The scratched coffee table she'd paid fifteen bucks for at a resale shop in the middle of July, dragging it home in over ninety degree heat and pulling her tank top away from her torso, the Friday of 'Friday I'm In Love' totally soaked through with sweat. The dark blue she'd painted the walls still looked fresh, though, and the print of _The Swing_ by Fragonard was straight as a beam on the far wall, over the couch.

Her laptop on the desk in the corner.

Her tiny kitchen, a row of boxes of Ramen on the counter next to the expensive espresso machine she'd splurged on.

The plush blue area rug.

Her TV.

The shelf where she kept all her books on one side, DVD's on the other.

Her record player by the window, and her stacks of LPs.

 _Everything_.

It was her apartment in immaculate detail.

She stared around, mouth slightly parted in awe.

But why would he have a memory of _this_ place—and one so devoted to every perfect facet? He knew she hated this place, as much as it was a part of her. She'd been determined, after college, to strike out on her own, to never go back to Nate's house, to avoid roommates, to hold onto that job with Jane with everything she had.

He knew all that.

And he was sharp and clever, and she had no doubt he saw how much she loved their place in the Tower, all the little trappings she'd added, clocks here and there, framed photos. She knew her attachment to the place was one of the things she didn't have to voice to him. If she did, he'd just give her that soft, wry look and smirk, and say "I know." And he'd wink at her.

She was hit, then, with such a strong wave of homesickness for him that it set her gasping, and she sat down hard on the chair that she'd kept at the bar, glad it was pulled out, and rubbed her palm over her smarting sternum again.

How the fuck was she supposed to do this?

She was entirely lost in the maze of his mind and she wasn't sure she was capable of pulling them both out again.

They were doomed to lie there in that lab forever, while they chased each other around this rat trap.

Just like that, her old familiar friend was back: hatred. Hatred for Alexander Pierce, and Arnim Zola flared to life in her again, rekindled by the state of the tangled mess she was currently wandering through.

She'd never been inside anyone else's subconscious before, but she was pretty certain that even the most scatterbrained person's mind was less scattered than this one.

And only because they'd jammed him like a radio signal for decades.

She stood, breathless with anger, but found herself unsure of what to do. The Winter Soldier had disappeared again, and she knew this apartment like the back of her hand. What new things was she supposed to discover in here?

"You're very close to the center now," a familiar voice spoke behind her, near the door.

Gasping, she spun.

It was Bucky.

Not _Her_ Bucky, but…perhaps someone closer to _Steve's_ Bucky. Older, closer to _pre-War_ Bucky, his hair slicked back, his suit neat and tidy, his shoes shined, like he'd just walked back from Sarah's funeral or something.

And he was looking at her, speaking to her, _aware_ of her.

She stared.

His brow creased. "You're almost there."

She blinked. "And my… _spirit guide_ …is telling me that my old shitty apartment is close to the center of…his own subconscious?"

 _Other_ Bucky smirked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. "Sort of."

She blinked again. " _Why_?!"

He looked up at her, his eyes almost supernaturally blue. "It's all tied together. This is linked to his earliest memories of you."

She glanced around again. "And I'm…"

He finished for her when she let her question hang. "You're the thing he protects the hardest. The part he locks away, where _he_ can't find it."

She blinked again, shaking her head. "You're talking in riddles. Where _who_ can't find it? That doesn't make any fucking sense."

But God was he gorgeous with that slick, thirties hair. She was painfully reminded again of the fact that she hadn't been good and laid in _way_ too long.

That smirk again. "The Other Guy."

She shook her head again. "No, but I think I made nice with him—he's the one that led me in here."

God, she sounded like a crazy person.

He narrowed his eyes. "Then you _are_ close."

She sighed, and pulled her hand down her face. "Close to _what_? What's at the center? I hate _Star Wars_ , dude—don't talk like fucking _Yoda_. Little _gremlin_ ," she added under her breath.

He took a step toward her. "You. _You're_ at the center."

She jerked her head back. " _Me_?"

He nodded. "Strange said that you understand better than most what a bond creates."

A chill went down her spine and she narrowed her eyes as she idly wondered just how this mental connection was supposed to work—were they like a two-way radio? "How do you know that?"

But he didn't answer her directly. "You're closely tied to him, now. You're buried deep. Just a little further." He nodded toward the far end of the room, where the apartment broke off into the claustrophobic bathroom on the left and the bedroom on the right.

There was a door there, where there hadn't been one before.

She stared at it, eyes wide. "But, what does that even mea—?" she started, turning.

But he was gone.

" _Seriously_?" She rolled her eyes. "For _fuck's_ sake," she grumbled, stomping across the room. "Like _Alice in Wonderland_. I'll show you Wonderland." She grabbed the doorknob. "For _anyone_ less than _James Barnes_ …" She turned the knob and opened the door to find herself in a rather rundown, dreary hallway.

It was empty but for a door set directly opposite.

And the Winter Soldier was there, guarding the panel with arms crossed.

And he didn't look happy to see her.

((()))

"Don't look so distraught, Stark," a voice spoke from behind Tony, in the dim dark of the lab. He jumped, and turned to find Strange hovering in the doorway, his cape back on. "Things will come together."

Tony snorted, turning back to the bed. "Oh? And you know this, how, _Oh, Great Wise One_?"

Strange smirked, but seemed otherwise unoffended as he came into the room, that weird cape buffeting softly around his feet, though there was no breeze, not even a draft. "I know. I sound like some crone from an old myth. But. I've learned my lesson. It was a hard one. And I've studied until I can't study anymore, then I've gone back for more. Things run in patterns, Stark. This one will run its course."

The inventor sighed and pulled his hand through his hair, setting it sticking up, giving his exhausted, 2-am face a hysterical sort of look. "I'd feel better if I could _see_ the pattern." He squinted tiredly at the sorcerer. "You can't…hook that up, can you?"

Strange smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sorry. No."

Tony huffed out a sigh and sank into the plastic chair beside the bed. "Figures."

The room was silent, now, all the machines turned low at Strange's insistence that everything now was a waiting game. He'd even insisted that they leave Darcy right where she'd curled up, lest they break whatever tenuous connection there was between them. So Bruce had groused, but settled for monitors on fingers, quiet machines monitoring heartbeats, and sitting back and being entirely too restless. It was eerie, Tony thought, for neither of them had moved, like they were some creepy art installation about sleeping through your life or something else deep and thought-provoking. Their chests rose and fell, but that was it. Bucky was still, his vibranium arm failing to give any further indication of his current state; Darcy's hand was still resting on his hip.

In the back of his mind hovered the constant thought that they looked peaceful—like Romeo and Juliet at the end of the Second Act. Only there wasn't nearly enough blood.

Tony could hardly stand it. "It's funny, you know…" he started. "With most people, I'm…like oil and water. I put up so many walls with my father and I've never cared enough to toss down a ladder to most people."

Strange nodded.

Tony wasn't sure why he was opening up. The sorcerer was practically a stranger to him. Something about him just…made you open your mouth.

"Most people think that makes me a monster, I guess."

Strange shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Usually someone with high walls doesn't build them to keep others out, but to keep themselves in," he said, his voice low. "To keep _themselves_ in, not because those people don't feel enough—but because they feel _too much, too strongly_. They build those walls to keep from crumbling under all the weight of what they feel. It's a sort of armor for the heart, don't you think?"

Tony snorted again, shaking his head. "So which kind of person am I?"

Strange tilted his head. "Stark, I don't need to study you very hard to know what type you are. The fact that you came to me tells me all I need to know."

Tony sighed and slumped back in the chair, his eyes never leaving the living statue on the bed. "This is _my_ fault."

Strange didn't contradict him. Normally this might've pissed Tony off, but he had the feeling that he did so, not out of agreement, but because he didn't feel he had enough information.

Then he spoke.

"Unlikely. But, it doesn't surprise me that you feel that way. Everyone makes their own choices, Stark. You, of all people, ought to know that. And you can't change the past. And you wouldn't be able to anyway. Grandfather Paradox."

Tony pulled a face. "My ability to change _back then_ would be impossible because the _reason_ for my desire to change hasn't occurred yet?"

Strange shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. "Rumor has it you've done your own travels through time."

Strange gave him a sly look. "Just because I have a tool that allows me to bend the rules doesn't mean I use it lightly. Besides, certain things are linear, and unchangeable."

Stark snarled low in his throat. "Okay, okay, _Doctor Who_. You're not making me feel better."

"I don't really have to. This will work itself out. This is about them at its core. This was set in motion back in Hawaii, when Barnes was exposed to the TMS device. Just give them time to untangle themselves."

" _What if they can't? Hm_?" Tony burst, shifting sharply in the chair to give the sorcerer a challenging look. "What if they're like this _forever_ , trapped in a prison in their own minds, hm? _What then_?"

Strange fixed him with a steadying look. "They won't be."

"And you're _so sure_ of that?" he snapped.

But Strange wasn't the least bit cowed. "Yes."

Tony huffed, looking away, back at the bed. His eyes darted up at the monitors, but he deflated quickly, his anger giving way to melancholy. "They've suffered enough."

Strange sighed. "I know."

Tony's heart in his throat, he murmured. "I just want my girl back."

((()))

Darcy held her hands up, palms out, as she stepped into the hallway, her heart in her throat. "Hi," she ventured.

The Winter Soldier glared.

She nibbled on her lip. "Don't suppose there's any chance you were just…waiting for me to show up, so you could show me inside?"

Nothing.

She took a step toward him.

He squared off.

She flinched, hesitating. The door slammed behind her, and when she jumped and turned, it was to find that the wall had mysteriously eaten it and behind her was, once again, bare hallway.

She sighed. "Of course. 'Cause this just keeps getting better and better." She sighed and turned back to her husband's alter ego. "Listen, _Bucko_. I'm assuming you're guarding the door because someone I'm looking for is being held captive in there? But I have to get through there. Okay? _Seriously_. This is what I came for. So whatever you are—figment, dreamscape, hallucination, _whatever_ —you're gonna have to kill me to keep me from getting in there, okay?"

He took another menacing step toward her.

She slumped, looking at him. "You don't know who I am? _Really_? _At all_? There's _no_ part of you that recognizes me?"

Nothing.

She rolled her eyes. "Get naked with a guy and it just goes right out of his head." She gave him a level, flippant look. "The _sex_? You don't even remember the _sex_? I mean, I don't think I'm anything to shake a stick at, really, but you'd think that would be pretty hard to forget. I mean, our chemistry is _off the charts_."

Still nothing.

Though she wasn't surprised, something in her deflated, a little hurt regardless of the fact that she'd known it was coming. Apparently, all the progress she'd somehow made had evaporated in the face of this—yet again—new version of Bucky. She had no doubt that this was a test—for both of them. "Jamie?" she murmured, taking a calculated risk and stepping all the way across the hall this time, right up to him, close enough to kiss him, if it weren't for the creepy mask. "You're my Jamie. I _need_ you now—I _need_ you to recognize me. _Physically_ need you to know who I am."

Not a flicker of recognition.

She sighed. "So you're just The Asset, then?"

This earned her a scowl.

So some part of him had hated the term even then?

She took a deep breath, something deep down telling her this was it: this was Do-or-Die, _this_ was the showdown. This was pass/fail. It was all in her hands here. "Well, dude, _my_ Jamie is in _there_. So you're gonna let me through, or we're gonna have a real hard time on our hands, aren't we? 'Cause I'm not backing down. You don't scare me. I'm here for him and I'm not leaving until I've got him. You can count on that."

Without any indication what he was thinking or feeling, he reached out, set each hand on a shoulder, and pushed her back a step.

She stumbled to obey, frowning. "I'm _serious_ ," she said, stepping forward again. "You're gonna have to get blood on your hands, man. I'm not playing around."

He glared.

She took another deep breath. "This is gonna hurt." She darted left, feinting, then pelted right, around him, and just barely reached the door when he was grabbing her around the waist and tugging her roughly back again.

She kicked out, using her weight to unbalance and surprise him.

His grip broke.

She hit the floor with an echoing thud and pain flared in her hip. But she didn't stop, pushing through it like it was just another episode, leveraging herself back off the floor with a leg that she aimed at his shin as he loomed over her.

It did absolutely no good.

But she slid through his legs and back up, shoving herself into the door again, trying the knob, and pounding on it with a fist, denting the hard wood in the process. "Jamie?!"

((()))

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Bucky lunged up off the bed and threw himself desperately at the door. " _Darce_?!"

" _Jamie_! It's _you_?!"

Relief like none he'd ever felt washed over him. Wait, no. That wasn't true. It paled in comparison to the way it had felt that long afternoon, to hear Bruce come out into the lab hallway and tell him that Darcy was alive. But it came damn close. "Oh, God, you have no idea how good it feels to hear your voice, dollface!"

"Just hang tight. I'm gonna get you outta—!"

Pounding, the sounds of a struggle.

"Darce?"

Could she be hurt in this dream-space that they were in? Was that possible on this non-physical plane? " _Darcy_?!"

The unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and he winced. " _Just a sec_!"

Definitely sounded like pain.

"Ya big jerk!"

A snarl—a familiar snarl.

He jerked back from the door, staring in shock.

((()))

" _Hah_!" she laughed as she darted lithely out of The Winter Soldier's way. "You're forgetting who trained me, ya big lug!" She ducked under an arm as he came at her again and tried the doorknob to find it locked.

She stopped, surprised into stillness. " _Hey_! I thought the whole point of this was to get to the door? I _totally_ thought I had _Inception_ down pat! Why the fuckity-fuck isn't this unlocked?!"

"Darce— _watch your six_!"

An awful weight slammed her against the door, and a very familiar hand snatched her up by her scruff and threw her— _literally, bodily_ —across the hall.

She slammed against the brick and fell in a heap on the floor, the wind totally knocked out of her. Sprawled flat on her back, she gasped desperately for air, eyes wide as she clutched at her chest. She was totally vulnerable as he leaned over her.

Throat dry, she finally succeeded in pulling in a lungful of air, and the pain hit, washing over her in a wave of agony so profound she wasn't sure even any of her episodes had been so bad.

 _Everything_ screamed.

For one horrible moment, she wasn't sure she could move.

But she did; by some instinct, she pulled herself up just in time to avoid being grabbed again, some part of her shocked that he'd _actually_ hurt her.

But he wasn't…him. Right now. He was…he was _someone_ _else_.

She coughed, wheezing in pain as she sauntered back to the door. "Jamie!"

"Are you alright?! _Tell me you're alright_!" came his desperate reply.

She coughed again, something in her chest giving way with a splintering jerk. Eyes clenched shut, she swallowed it down. "I'm fine."

" _What's he done to you_?!"

She tugged at the knob, but couldn't answer, as she was pushed back again, shoved to the left with a bone-jarring shake. She barely caught herself, a few choice words shaking loose in her mind. But she was determined to keep them in her head rather than on her tongue. No matter what this version of Bucky did to her, he was still Bucky. And once words were spoken, you couldn't take them back again. And she didn't want him to hear from the other side of the door. No matter how he hated his alter ego, she felt sure that he'd take at least a little of it to heart, and she could hardly blame him.

How on earth he was able to differentiate between himself and The Asset was mind-boggling to her. She'd have gone mad long, long ago trying to carry around the sins he shouldered.

She balanced on the wall and stared him down. "Well? I know what you've got. So bring it."

((()))

Raw horror pooled in Bucky's gut.

Certainly his own mind had conjured this as a test, right? Forced him to listen as The Other Guy took Darcy down while he was trapped, helpless to stop it.

Oh, God, he was beating up his own wife!

He pressed against the door, his breathing ragged as he pounded on it with his fist, feverishly trying to turn the handle with his left hand, hoping against hope—no matter how many times he'd tried it now—that his vibranium strength would snap the mechanism.

But his arm whined to no avail. The door was sealed.

((()))

"I'm not scared of you, dude!" she declared, planting her feet. "C'mon. Don't puss out now— _bring it_!"

Never mind that she was swaying unsteadily.

Never mind that her entire torso was screaming in pain.

Never mind that her right ankle was swelling at a rapid rate.

"Just ignore the pain, Darcy. It's not there. None of this is even real."

He came at her.

She dodged, darting to the right at the last second. "You just hate that I got all this way, don't you? You can't _stand_ it!" she taunted.

He took a swipe, but she darted away again.

"All this time, and you can't expel me, can you? I'm like a splinter to you, huh?"

His left arm shot out again and this time he made contact, striking her hot and fast in her already injured ribs.

She jerked, gasping as she retreated, hands over the offended body part, hissing in pain. "The thing is," she continued, wincing. "You don't have to defend yourself against me."

She was well aware that the taunting was quickly turning into begging again, but couldn't keep the note of longing from her voice, not with her Jamie just on the other side of that door. "You _know_ me!"

Was this what Steve had tried to do to get through to him two years ago, on that helicarrier? Had he begged his friend to recognize him to no avail, until he worked some magic?

He struck out again, snarling in anger or defensiveness, she wasn't sure and somehow managed to get her in the throat. " _NO, I DON'T_!" he snarled, in English, his first full communication with her.

She doubled over, coughing, hard, tasting blood. "God damn," she gasped, her voice hoarse. She glared up at him as he circled her, his menace a thing of fascination for her, really, if she was being honest. The contrast of this vicious, efficient killer with her gentle, quiet-souled Bucky was twice as striking in person than she'd ever imagined it could be. "I know what this is about."

He scowled.

"You defend yourself twice as hard because you still hate yourself. Isn't that right?"

He glared.

"You still _blame_ yourself, don't you? You carry around _so much_ guilt, but it's for _nothing_ , Jamie!"

He surprised her, lashing out all at once, and he slammed her—bodily—back into the wall, growling. " _SHUT UP_!" he yelled, his voice going raw.

She coughed. "Fuck it, Jamie. It's _over_. They _manipulated_ you. That was _them_ , not _you_ , baby."

He slammed his left fist into the wall beside her head, showering them with brick shards and plaster dust.

"It's _over_. You can't take it back." She was surprised to find she was crying, tears thick in her throat, but more shocking was the realization it had nothing to do with _her_ pain, but _his_. "It's _over_ , baby, and you can't take it back. I'm sorry, Jamie, but _you can't take it back._ "

With a snarl, he released her and resumed his place at the door.

She leaned there, trying to recover while he seemed satisfied that he'd sent her a message. "Fuck it. _Fuck_ HYDRA, and _fuck_ AIM, and _fuck_ Maria, and Jane, and Wanda—they don't _get_ it. But they don't _have_ to. You've suffered enough, you've earned your place with the good guys, Jamie," she pleaded, approaching slowly. "It's _over_ now. You have to let it go."

He reaffirmed his stance against her as she approached, shoving her roughly back again.

She fought his grip, but he was too strong, and it didn't seem like her new strength was useful against him here. " _I'm not afraid of you_ ," she bit out, clenching her teeth. "You can try all you want to scare me away, but it didn't work last time and it won't work now. So do your worst, James Barnes." She squared her feet.

He stepped forward again, menacing and huge.

She glared up at his cold eyes, sharp over his mask. "I'm getting through that door. _You're gonna let me in_."

He stepped into her space.

" _You know how I know_?" she continued as she was pushed back.

He snarled again, shoving.

Again, she was trapped between him and the wall, her ribs protesting violently as she struggled. " _Because you're not a superhero_!"

He focused his attack now, and she could see the desperation in his eyes, like he needed to prevent her from speaking any more. Those eyes, they were looking more and more devastated—and more and more familiar. His left hand came up around her throat as he growled at her.

The pressure there increased and she struggled, shoving at his iron chest as her throat closed. "But I don't _care_ if you're a superhero, Jamie!" she rasped. "I just care that you're _my_ hero—!" Desperate for air, she managed to get her rapidly weakening fingers around the bottom of the mask.

He jerked away, releasing her.

But it was too late.

The mask came free in her hand, revealing the rest of his face.

She coughed violently, gasping for air, gagging as she clutched at her raw throat. She tossed the mask aside, tears stinging her eyes as she struggled to speak through her hoarse voice. "I just want my hero back."

Finally she was able to stand upright.

The Winter Soldier was gone.

And in the open doorway, staring at her, was Bucky.


	26. Chapter 26: It's Been A Long, Long Time

**Chapter 26** **: It's Been A Long, Long Time**

 **Summary:** **Almost there.**

 **Notes:** **Okay, guys. We're just about to the end now. I'll be posting a little epilogue tomorrow, but this is the last full chapter. I've had so much fun writing this installment-and I hope you guys had fun reading it! Again, thank you all for every kind comment and kudos, they mean so much to me and I love you all! Sorry, again, for the cliffhangers and for the slow responses to comments, sometimes time just gets away on me. But I love you all! Please let me know how you like. And really, now would be the time to suggest ideas if you have them, as I'm putting together a rough list of further stories for our various characters in the future, so totally throw stuff my way if there's anything specific you might enjoy reading. I'd be open to various one-shots and things like that, in between larger installments. So definitely let me know, okay? I love you all! Please enjoy this end bit! Sarah** **PS-Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Kitty Kallen. Had to use it here, as I sort of think of as 'Their Song'.**

((()))

There was no lunging, no gasping, and no jerking violently awake, no disorientation.

Darcy opened her eyes as though she'd taken a nice, long, invigorating nap and looked down to find Bucky looking up at her from his back in the bed, his eyes bluer than she'd ever seen them.

They stared at each other.

She opened her mouth—

 _Doctor Banner_ , JARVIS spoke up. _I believe your patients have awoken_.

He flinched.

Tony slip-slid into the room first, his eyes wide as he looked at them, as though he couldn't dare to trust what his eyes were seeing.

Bruce was next, catching himself up on the doorway.

Then Steve catapulted in, too, actually out of breath.

Natasha darted in.

Sam hovered in the doorway.

Pepper's voice rang out from behind him, asking for an update.

Bruce finally spoke up. "Everyone _out_!"

Everyone started talking at once, asking if they were alright, demanding to know what had happened, what had taken so long, if they could help.

Darcy winced, dropping down on her back, her shoulder pressed to Bucky's side as everything came back to her all at once—including a sharp pain manifesting on the right side of her torso.

Then Tony's voice rose up. " _Out_!" he yelled. " _EVERYONE OUT_! It's _my_ lab, _MY RULES_!"

Stricken silent, everyone shuffled out, glowering at the two men like they'd just ruined playtime.

Steve, blushing, pulled the door shut behind them.

It was hours before they were allowed any peace. Bruce ran a full gambit of tests; Tony did the interviewing, told them she'd been out for three days, then barely let Darcy get a word in edgewise.

She lied when she told him she couldn't remember anything.

It just felt…easier. And less…like they were exposed.

She was, indeed, rather severely injured. Bruce hypothesized that though the experience had been a mental one, that pain centers were, in fact, located in the brain. Therefore—she could feel pain. He couldn't find much evidence of _physical_ trauma, but told her to go easy until her mysterious powers healed her. It was largely gone by the time they were done.

Bucky, on the other hand, still had a sore head. When she suggested using her talents, she'd nearly jumped out of her skin at their reaction.

" _No_! _Absolutely_ not. _Not_ medically advisable. Bucky will heal like he should now."

"No more using that… _thing_ until we know how it works, Short Stack!"

Bruce was reluctant to let him out of his sight, but Darcy was adamant.

So, with suspicious, CSI-style glances that they weren't being told the whole story, they allowed the two of them to hobble home with the understanding that they were only _temporarily_ released.

They were silent in the elevator, Bucky leaning into Darcy's side just a little. It was disorienting to have their roles reversed, but she didn't comment.

JARVIS let them in without a word.

They stood for a long moment in the doorway, Max jumping up to greet them from the couch, making little grunting noises as he tried to reach them.

Darcy turned to him. "I—"

But he silenced her by pulling her desperately into his arms, cupping her head in his large, warm palm and pressing his face into the hollow of her neck and shoulder.

They stood like that, unmoving, for a full ten minutes. Bucky's breathing was slow and warm against her collar bone, and she felt her pulse slow and relax.

He didn't otherwise move to release her. "Why did you lie to Tony?" he finally murmured, pulling back to look down at her.

She looked up into his eyes and found anguish there. "I don't know."

"I missed you," he whispered, leaning over her.

"I missed you," she replied.

And he was kissing her, desperately, and softly, and they got lost for a long moment in their embrace. His hands were warm between her shoulder blades, and his heart beat a butterfly's pulse beneath her palms.

Max yipped.

They broke apart, breathless.

"I don't know what any of that was," he murmured.

She pressed her forehead to his. "I don't think I do either." She glanced down at the wiggling puppy. "But someone wants to meet you."

She made him sit on the couch first, clutching a very anxious dog in her arms all the while he managed to stretch out. Finally she let him go.

He bolted straight over Bucky's legs and threw himself into his arms, whining and grunting his excitement as he showered his new person with kisses.

The sound of Bucky's laughter was a balm after a long winter.

He was asleep quickly, Max curled up in the crook of his arm.

She smiled as she cleaned up a bit, warmth filling her after so long in barren iciness. Curious, how a mess could still come up, even when you weren't home. She dusted, wiped down some of the counters, then squinted into the sink, wondering who had done the dishes she'd unwittingly left there three days ago. There were fresh crumbs around Max's dish, and the water in his water tower looked new, so she had to assume that Tony had been around, looking after things.

Then she perched on the back of the couch and looked down at Bucky, his face peaceful in sleep—real sleep.

She'd done it. She'd retrieved him. She didn't really know what any of it meant, yet. But he was hers again, restored.

She reached down and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

He shifted, breathing, and his eyes opened, just a crack, to look up at her.

It was the most relieved and wonderful feeling she could recall in the past few weeks.

He sighed. "Sorry. Fell asleep. Go figure."

She smiled. "You did."

"What's up?" he murmured.

"Nothing." She stood, patting Max on the head. "Just rest."

((()))

It was surprisingly slow going. Bucky had been through too much trauma even for the Super Soldier Serum to manage it in one go. He went through bouts of dizziness that had him lying on the couch with Max for hours at a time. Headaches plagued him. It was the longest they'd gone with no music playing in the background, no movies on the couch, or television.

Bruce did some scans, but concluded it was all related to the smack he'd taken on the back of the head in the blast upstate. His skull was knitting itself back up again, and Bruce was fascinated.

Darcy kept her guilty comments to herself and offered a massage that had him purring like a cat in five minutes flat.

Not being as worn out as he was, she had to work to tamp down the swell of want that rose to the surface of her skin that entire night, sure that actual steam was rising off of her. "No happy endings, mister," she teased.

He snorted. "I'm just trying not to pass out." He jerked. "Right there." He winced, adjusting so that her thumbs put pressure on the left side of his neck. He hissed, and she wasn't sure if it was good or bad.

"You want me to ease up?"

He released a sigh of laughter. "Oh, I want a lot of things right now, but I'm not likely to get them. So I'll settle for more pressure for now."

She smirked. "You're alright?"

His voice was pitched low; he'd been speaking at a softer volume since they'd clawed their way back to the land of the living together, and she wondered how much headway he was making, working through his introspection. She left him to it. "You worry about me too much. I'll be fine. It's just a concussion."

She frowned. "Yeah, no, that wasn't a concussion, Jamie. That was a _cerebral contusion_. You know your skull was cracked, right? Like an _egg_?"

He waved a hand. "Fell off a train."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, yeah, that's right," she snarked, rolling her eyes. "I _forgot_."

Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. She increased the pressure in her thumbs, pushing past it, and blinking them away before she could give herself up.

"You okay?"

Damn him.

Lying was pointless. "Not sure yet."

But he didn't say anything more.

They took Max for a few slow walks through Central Park, the leash relaxed in Bucky's hand and Darcy's hand through his elbow. The park was full, children playing, people laughing as they fed the ducks, teenagers running back and forth on the winding path.

Life went on around them, ordinary and villain-less. Safe.

Max further affirmed her suspicion that he'd been left behind as someone's pet, for he walked well on the leash, didn't pull, his 'heel' was on point, and he only darted after one goose that stubbornly wouldn't move off the path. It hissed at him and he slunk around it, giving it the puppy side-eye.

Bucky chuckled.

Darcy told him about her trip to the courthouse, then regaled him with the tale of how Max the Dog came to be theirs.

Unlike Tony's ruffled feathers response, when she detailed her apparent admirer and his subsequent ass-kicking, he burst out laughing. It had been so long since he'd laughed, she couldn't manage to wipe the grin off her face for a full five minutes.

She thought it was funny, really, that when she was a kid, she'd have pointed to any Disney movie if someone had asked her for her idea of a prince. But now she found that this guy she clung to was really nothing like them. He was charming, yes. He was handsome, sure. He was brave, and determined, he was sweet and thoughtful, supportive and warm. But he didn't always swoop in to protect her. Sometimes it was as simple as the fact that he wasn't able. He was frequently off on missions—or, as this time would have it—incapacitated. Sometimes, he deemed her capable of defending herself.

And after everything she'd been through, she didn't think she'd have been capable of accepting anything less.

He knew she could stand up for herself; he expected her to be able to come to her own defense, for the simple reason, she was sure, that he wouldn't always be standing at her shoulder.

He wouldn't have bothered training her if he didn't want her to be able to hold her own. Somewhere, deep down, she wondered if her spitfire attitude had been part of her attraction. After all, girls back in The War weren't exactly throwing punches—Peggy Carter excluded, of course.

She wondered if the whole 'modern woman' thing had worked in her favor or if something else had drawn him in.

She almost asked him.

Then he looked over at her and smiled his sweet, eye-crinkling smile.

And she didn't bother.

They went home, had dinner, put Max in his little doggie bed, and went to sleep. She curled up on her side and pressed her forehead to his shoulder, finally warm.

Their stay-cation continued for about a week.

Darcy went in for a limited amount of hours with Tony, who insisted on getting by without her until further notice, and Bucky was out of commission until his headaches stopped. Bruce ran more tests, and Bucky's dizzy spells faded, but the headaches persisted, though duller in strength. It frustrated him, sitting in the apartment or in Tony's lab while Darcy worked. When he wasn't on missions, his primary function was combat training for some of the lower level agents, or even some of the team. It seemed he really spent quite a good chunk of time sparring with Sam and Steve, sometimes Thor, and their combined strengths kept each other sharp.

But he couldn't do that now.

He huddled in the corner on a spare stool and read _Fahrenheit 451_ while Tony messed with the 3-D printer and Darcy muttered annoyances at his failure to file anything appropriately—or even anything at all.

They spent their evenings snuggled on the couch, now, with a movie on low while Bucky struggled to keep his eyes open. Darcy would've been worried had Bruce not told her this was likely to happen.

Max settled in nicely, and he'd even claimed a patch of grass on the corner outside the Tower all for his own use. He was particularly good at cuddling up to Bucky under a blanket, sighing when he was comfortable, and refusing to move until Darcy was relegated to picking him up and setting him in his little dog bed.

And all the while, neither of them mentioned what had happened while they'd both been asleep.

Darcy was fairly positive—given his question of her honesty with Tony—that he remembered everything that had happened in their shared dreamscape. He'd taken to giving her long looks, and she wasn't sure just what the emotion was that she found in his eyes when she turned and caught him looking.

Herself, she suffered from strange dreams, dreams where she still wandered through Bucky's mind, as well as her own, old memories, things she'd forgotten, memories that couldn't be hers, memories of their beginning, way back, in Central Park.

She hadn't really thought it possible, but something else seemed to happen: they grew closer.

This baffled her a bit. They'd always been good at closing ranks against those critical on the team—and those in the real world—but this was something else. This was something you could only gain from swimming around in someone else's head, from drowning in their blood and their memories until you weren't sure which were still your own and which belonged to another life entirely.

They didn't speak as much, but there seemed to be another level of understanding and intention layered into their interactions. Twice, he sat down beside her after she thought about how nice it would be to snuggle up against him with her book. Once, mid-week, she crossed the room to him before even thinking about it, so used to peeling off his clothes that she forgot that she couldn't quell her want in him for now, while he was under the weather. But he merely set a hand on her arm, holding her eye contact for an interminably long moment.

And all her tension had melted away, satisfied.

And they were both fully clothed.

She stared down at his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and blinked, wondering what—when they finally got back to it—the _actual_ sex would be like.

She cooked, for once, cursing her way through grilled chicken, but Bucky said it was perfectly edible.

He put a Sam Cooke record on and surprised her on her way past the couch, scooping her into his arms. They danced in the middle of the living room to 'Bring It on Home to Me', the light in the room fading until they were swaying in a pool of neon light from the building next door.

Max started snoring on the couch, and they left him there, cozy, and went to bed, leaving the door cracked so he could find them if he needed to. Darcy shut the drapes so that they were in total darkness, and they pressed against each other in bed.

She was just starting to drift when he spoke, his voice low and soft, and he asked it again. "Why did you lie to Tony?"

She sighed. "I don't know. It felt…too vulnerable to tell him…what happened…whatever it was that happened." She looked up into his face.

They shared a long look that spoke volumes as to what truly _had_ happened. Neither of them spoke, but they didn't need to. It felt, to Darcy, like everything had come full circle, and that the loose knot they'd been tangled in had finally smoothed itself out and pulled taut, drawing everything shut.

They never spoke of it again.

((()))

"Are you two, uh…okay?"

Darcy looked up from the memo she was typing to find Tony giving her a narrow-eyed look. She blinked. "…What?"

He didn't budge. "You two lovebirds. You okay?"

She blinked again, cocking her head at him. "Yeah. Why?"

He shrugged, glancing awkwardly down at the thingamabob on his desk that he'd been fiddling with. "I dunno. You…haven't mentioned him much lately."

She blinked again, giving him a look. "You mean since he woke up from his _coma_ two weeks ago?"

He nodded. "Well… _yeah_."

She snorted. "Did you want a play-by-play of every migraine he's had? I burned our steaks last night and he had to make pasta at the last minute. Or were you looking for a record of all the amazing sex we've been having?" She smirked. It was a _total_ lie—he had yet to lay a _finger_ on her. "'Cause last night, _wow_ , lemme tell you—"

"Okay." He cut her off, hands up. " _Fine_. I give. Never mind."

She grinned.

They made it another five minutes.

"It's just, _really_ , something seems _off_. You've been pretty quiet. You guys are… _okay_?"

She smiled, warmth blossoming in her chest at not only Tony's concern, but her own answer. "We're fine. We're really good. _Great_ , actually." It was funny, what could happen when sex was off the table. They'd settled into what she could only call 'domestic bliss'. Not that she would without rolling her eyes. "Why?"

Tony shrugged. "I dunno. Haven't seen him much lately."

She nodded. "Well, he's been anxious to get back into it. You know how his type is—can't stand waiting around." She pushed her keyboard away. "We just got married. We're _supposed_ to be really good—isn't that the point?"

He shrugged again. "Hell if I know. It's just…usually you talk about…it. More."

She snorted. "Mister Stark, are you accusing me of _lying_?" And she fixed him with a flirtatious look that she hoped threw him off the scent. She had no intention of telling anyone what had happened to them in that shared space—not even _Tony_. That had all been… _extremely_ personal, and she was pulling her Wife Card. Total secrecy, they'd never get it out of her.

He huffed and sat back in his chair, picking up the do-dad again and frowning at it. "You still haven't mentioned how you…" He drifted off.

She raised a brow, meeting it head-on. "And I won't be."

He blinked up at her again. "What do you mean? Why not?"

She shrugged. "I'm not really sure _what_ happened, Tony. But I _do_ know that none of it merits a medical mention. And it got me my man back. That's all I'm concerned with."

He nodded, his eyes drifting around the space before landing and sticking on his desk again.

She narrowed her own eyes now, suspicious. "Speaking of _lying_ …"

He visibly tensed. "Don't know what you're talking about, Lewis."

She smirked. "You can't call me that anymore, Boss Man. Name's not Lewis."

He huffed again.

"Out with it, Stark."

"Hill found Killian."

She blinked at him stupidly, surprised that she could still _be surprised_. " _Hill_ did?"

He hemmed, then hawed. "Well. Steve and I implied that if she didn't treat him as Directive Number One, there was…somewhere she could _go_."

She smirked. " _And_?"

He heaved a sigh, and tossed the contraption aside, clearly frustrated. "And he was ready to throw us off the scent. Clint got there just in time to see him high-tail it outta there. He's in the wind— _again_."

"So _that's_ where Clint's been…"

He nodded. "Really wants blood for all this Hawaii shit." He shrugged. "Think he's got a soft spot for you."

She smiled. "Aw. Don't I feel special?"

Tony surprised her, and gave her the most intense look she thought she'd seen from him in a while. "Hey. You're _ours_ , Short Stack. No one else's."

She swallowed, staring at his reaction with wide eyes, unable to move for a moment as they studied each other.

He broke first, looking down at his desk, expression uncharacteristically open and vulnerable. "When you…were taken…I…"

She waited.

"Darcy, I…"

Her full name. Why did neither of the men in her life ever use her full name unless things were super serious? "Don't you _dare_ tell me you blame yourself," she ordered. "You and Bucky both need a _slap_ concerning your self-hatred."

Tony flinched; actually flinched. "He was going after _me_ —"

She pulled a face. "By kidnapping and torturing—"

" _Someone close_ to me!" he burst, finally looking up at her, his expression earnest. "I don't know how he knew, but he knew I had…squishy, paternal… _feelings_ …and-and he-ran with it!"

It came out all in a stuttering rush. If there was one thing that Tony Stark didn't often do, it was stutter.

"I don't know how he figured it out. But he took you because he knew it would hurt me, Short Stack, and he hoped he could use you to get to me, and to further his fucking _experiments_ , and to gain control of The _Winter Soldier_ , and he did it _right under my nose_." He gestured wildly, starting to pace around the room, one way, then the other, the length of the lab.

"I think Jamie's pacing is rubbing off on you," she snarked, watching him.

"And it _kills_ me that JARVIS tried to warn me, but I just assumed the car in the drive was from Deb, or something, they came over to clean or _something_ , and it was that _fucker_ the whole time! He had you strapped to a fucking chair, Darce! A _chair_! Sticking you with _needles_ , and Buck out on the beach, totally warped by that fucking _machine_ —"

"Tony."

"And I could've put on a suit and been down there in no time, but I was here, with my head in that _fucking_ _drone_ —"

She sighed. " _Tony_ —"

"And something could've _seriously_ happened to you—you could've _died_ , Darcy!"

She flinched and swallowed reflexively, but didn't say what she was thinking—that she _had_ died, there, for just a moment. She wasn't sure how, but she was _sure_ of it. While Tony continued to pace, she allowed herself to wallow in that memory, telling Bucky about the hollow moment she'd drifted through, somehow sure she wasn't part of the waking world anymore. The press of his body on her, his solid weight holding her tethered while she confessed, driving a stake through his heart. He hadn't moved. He'd barely _breathed_ , his chest still against her belly in that hotel bed. She hadn't had the strength, then, to meet his eyes.

Something deep in her tightened, pulling taut like a bowstring, and it was suddenly so difficult to breathe, she had to set a hand to her desk and focus, Tony's pacing a distraction in the room.

She'd never been the type of girl to swoon, never been the type to be reliant on a man, content— _determined_ —to get through her shit on her own, like a big girl.

But in that moment, she needed Bucky so badly her throat started to cramp, and she had to swallow the urge to cry twice to avoid alarming Tony any further.

She wasn't sure where this was coming from—hadn't she processed enough of the residual shit from their misadventure to be over this by now?

Tony huffed again, finally pausing at her desk to look at her.

It took everything in her not to flinch under his sharp gaze.

"Short Stack, I—"

Her Daft Punk ringtone saved her as her phone went off, lighting up on her desk, a photo identifying who it was.

 _Bucky_.

To avoid giving away her shaking hands, she snatched at it quickly and slid down off her stool and around Tony, ignoring his pleading gaze as she slipped from the room and into the hall.

She leaned against the wall for a short moment, gathering herself, before she slid her finger across the screen. "Hey," she breathed, letting her eyes slip shut. "What's up, Hot Stuff?"

" _What's wrong_?" he asked, straight up, no chaser, his voice low, but with a hard edge to it that made her flinch again; clearly he was in Protective Husband Mode.

What the _fuck_ had happened to them in that dream?!

She knew she'd taken a second too long to answer—he could read her like a book, he always had. "Nothing. Why?"

Now _he_ was caught out, hesitating, and she could hear the sounds of sparring going on in the background.

"Ah! _God_ , Tash!" Steve complained.

"I dunno. I…" Bucky paused. "I just…got a funny feeling…"

She focused on the sound of his voice, pressing back against the wall and trying to breathe in and out. "A feeling?"

Another pause.

"C'mon, Rogers—you won't break me. Let's be honest—you would've by now," Natasha teased.

"Just…" Bucky sighed, clearly frustrated. "Let's be honest, things have been… _weird_. And Steve and Nat were demonstrating a move for Maximoff, and I got the _weirdest_ feeling."

Breathe in. Breathe out. He's right on the other end of the line. Right on the other end of the line. _Right on the other end of the line, Darcy—get your shit together_. "What kind of feeling?"

He took a deep breath. "I dunno. That you…you were…" He huffed. It was going around. "I don't _know_ , Darce, it felt like a tugging, like you were…I don't _know_ what it was, it was like an alarm bell going off in my head."

She swallowed. Seriously, what the _fuck_ had happened to them?

She had to call Strange as soon as she could.

His voice softened intolerably, and again, that welling feeling of needing him. Physical yearning. "Are you alright?"

God, he could be so tender and soft, it was like he was actually _trying_ to make her knees go weak. "I'm fine. Tony was…asking me…what happened."

She didn't need to elaborate—that was becoming clearer and clearer.

"And what did you tell him?"

She rolled her eyes, glad to latch onto sarcasm instead of this lurching desire. "That I didn't fucking _know_ what happened, baby. I don't know _what_ that was—what the fuck _was_ that?!"

There. One of them had finally said it.

He sighed heavily, and she could picture him tugging a hand through his shaggy, tousled hair. "I dunno. But it's freaking me out a little bit."

She exhaled a laugh. "That makes two of us."

"I mean, not really in a _bad_ way. But…" He swallowed so hard, it was audible. "You're sure you're alright? I've got goosebumps, and that itchy feeling I get when you're in trouble."

She found herself smirking and was beyond grateful to him. "I'm okay. _Now_." And she was surprised to find she was. The shaking had subsided. "I'll see you later?"

Another deep sigh, what sounded like what might be relief. "'Course."

"Okay."

"I love you," he murmured.

Warmth saturated her. "Me too."

And, at least slightly fortified, she went back in to face her would-be father.

((()))

"So he grilled you about it?" he said later that night, spearing more salad with his fork.

Darcy rolled her eyes and reached for the Caesar dressing. "For, like, a half hour."

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, you got off easy with Nate, but now you're getting the Daddy Treatment."

She sighed, but couldn't help but feel soft and fuzzy about it. "Yeah. I know. The big, stupid jerk."

Bucky snorted as he speared his last tomato. "Stop. You love it."

She screwed the top of the bottle shut and pushed back her chair, plucking her wine glass up with her other hand and tipping back a sip of Moscato. "Can't say I don't."

He turned on the tap and started the dishes from their salad; they'd opted for a lighter dinner—or, rather, Darcy had. She was tired of burning things. It irked her. She'd lived on her own long enough. She was no four-star chef, but she knew how to cook well enough to get by. But since things had settled down, she'd found herself too jumpy in the aftermath to do anything with any sort of command and focus. She sighed and replaced the dressing in the fridge.

"What did you tell him?" he asked over the rush of the water.

"Very little," she replied, bumping the fridge shut with her hip and going back for the rest of the dishes. "There's not much to tell, really. I mean, what's he wanna hear, that we wandered around like Alice in Wonderland for what felt like _forever_ before waking up like it had all been a bad dream? He'd laugh." She set the forks and his empty wine glass in the sink, then finished her own and added it, setting it on the edge for washing.

Bucky shrugged, lathering the sponge. No matter how many times she reminded him that the dishwasher could do a rather commendable job doing this for him, he seemed to enjoy doing the task himself. "Well, this is _Tony Stark_ we're talking about—he might surprise you."

She sighed again. "Yeah. You're probably right. But…"

He looked up. "What?"

She stared, caught in his azure gaze. It was absurd, really, she thought, the things that could flip your mood, the things that could trip you up and make you look twice. He stood there, doing the most mundane task known to man, his hands wrist-deep in hot, soapy water, looking at her, like, like everything in him was focused on her words, his eyes as deep a blue as his button up shirt, undone over his t-shirt and half-popped at the collar, obscuring part of his sharp, handsome jaw line. His hair had feathered over his face, shuttering part of his cheek and eye like slats in drapes, catching up in his long, dark lashes.

And she couldn't speak. She could barely think, standing there, staring at him, totally snared in his unconscious, masculine…beauty. There was no other word for it, and it occurred to her that people used it too much to refer only to feminine things.

"You're wonderful—did you know that?"

It was out of her mouth before she could recall it, and she felt her face go hot under his gaze.

He took a half step back from the sink, his hands—long fingers full of soap—cupping the counter edge as he cocked his head at her and gave her a wry look. "You know, it never occurred to me." He winked.

She took a step toward him. "I'm serious."

He shut off the tap. "What brought this on? If the fact that I'm _doing the dishes_ turns you on, I'm gonna have to revisit my seduction techniques," he joked, completely aware that this wasn't the issue. "Is it the foreplay? Is it too long? It really seems like you enjoy that part—I mean, what woman wouldn't? But I can—"

She reached up and kissed him.

He pivoted toward her, letting slip a small, sexy sound of surprise from his throat.

She would've said, later, that it sounded hopelessly cheesy, but she couldn't deny the tug—the physical pull—in her heart as their mouths met.

She thought idly of what Strange had said, that they were unique, that she had a unique understanding, now, a sixth sense for what a promise truly meant.

She also thought it was sad that they had to be so unique. It certainly seemed like people nowadays had no time—or desire—to connect to anyone else, not in any truly meaningful way. She wouldn't sever herself from Bucky for anything in the world.

Feeling a little foolish, she went to pull back, but he moved to wrap his arms around her, leaving wet handprints on the small of her back, making her t-shirt warm and damp. He pulled her flush against him, and she felt the thrum of his heartbeat against her collarbone, solid and steady.

He moved to deepen the kiss, sliding his hands up her back and knotting one in her hair, the smile on his mouth evident in the curve of his lips.

She couldn't have stopped the soft moan from slipping out if she'd tried, tugging on his collar to pull him down closer to her.

His hands were steady as he slid them up under her t-shirt, gentle on her skin, and she shivered as his callused fingers traced her scars. Softly, he pulled the piece of clothing off over her head and let it drop to the floor.

She tugged on his buttons as his mouth ventured south, trailing a line down, over her jaw, then the hollow of her throat, and she leaned back, throwing the shirt down to join hers, sighing. "I missed you," she whispered, tightening her fingers in his hair. "So much." She pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it away, moving immediately on to his jeans, popping the button, and her heart skipped at the hiss of the zipper. "I missed you so much."

He was silent, but for the soft little hitch in his breathing as she slipped a hand beneath and touched him. Still without speaking, he picked her up and set her calves around his hips as he moved off, down the hall.

Max snored in the corner as they passed.

He stretched her out on the bed and slid her leggings off, palming her thighs and bringing other garments with them, his mouth trailing along after, and everything in her tightened, painfully as she shimmied out of her bra.

When he'd set his own clothes aside, set his weight on her and slipped inside, she could've cried at the satisfaction. "Oh, God, it feels like _forever_ ," she moaned softly, curling a leg around his waist.

It was gentle and quiet.

And Darcy could swear she was feeling everything from within and without, and she had the strangest feeling they were having another one of those moments where they were half lost in the other's head again.

Not that she minded. It was a heady sensation, feeling everything in surround sound, and she gasped, clinging to him and digging her nails into his shoulder blades as his rhythm hitched and increased, and she curled her hips, meeting him for each stroke.

They came at the same time in a blinding blaze of white, Darcy's vision sharpening at the serum-enhanced adrenaline rush and she felt herself blush as the flood of endorphins brought tears to her eyes, slipping free and into her hairline as she clutched him.

The room went dim around them as he settled his head on her belly.

It took her a few moments to realize the harsh gasping was coming from her and that a man who was largely incapable of becoming winded was experiencing a heartbeat so intense that she could feel it pounding out a tattoo against her thigh.

It took a long, long time for the glow to fade and for her ears to stop rushing with her sluicing blood.

"That was different," she finally said, and her voice was rough.

Boneless, he didn't move. "You don't say."

((()))

She drummed her fingers nervously on her desk, eyeing the doorway with trepidation, her nails clacking in rhythm as she listened to the dial tone. Tony had left early to pick up a part he needed for evil Drone 13, and he'd told her to hold down the fort, but she wouldn't put it past him to randomly show up—or anyone else for that matter. For a group of secretive super-people, they sure could be nosy and bothersome, and she didn't want this conversation overheard.

She still hadn't spoken with Jane since her monstrous attempt at an apology almost a month prior. Darcy and Maria were still playing a passive-aggressive game of pretending the other didn't exist. Wanda, whom she hadn't seen in weeks, seemed to have chosen sides as well.

Once again, her and her big mouth were surrounded by a gang of well-meaning, if often awkward, _boys_.

Well. At least she still had Natasha. Tasha seemed to fit in more with the guys too, for that matter. So she decided not to be bothered by the whole thing and wash her hands of it. The problem wasn't hers and never would be so there was no use in—to use an overdone phrase—crying over spilt milk.

The other line continued to ring and she bit her lip, nervous that the number she'd been given had merely been handed over to placate her rather than for actual use.

"Darcy," a voice suddenly greeted on the other end. "I was wondering if you'd call. I heard you…woke up."

Her heart fluttered in relief at the sound of Strange's low rumble. "Hi. Yeah."

A pause. "Everything worked itself out, then?"

She swallowed. "Yeah. I was…just starting to wonder if you were out."

His smile was clear in his voice. "Just walked in. Was checking on a few wards, nothing more."

She nodded.

"…Was there…something you needed?"

"Um…" She chewed on her lip again, getting up to pace before she caught herself, rolled her eyes at Bucky's behavior rubbing off on her, then forced herself to sit again, and not fidget. "Actually, yeah, I had…a question."

"Go on."

She took a breath. "Are there…any…like, freaky side-effects that I should expect from…whatever that was…that you suggested I do?" She sighed and rolled her eyes. Lame, Darcy.

But he didn't laugh. "What, exactly, _did_ you do?"

She sighed, frustrated and feeling foolish.

"Darcy, I may no longer, _technically_ , be a doctor, but I'm not going to go and tell Tony Stark all about your secrets, okay? I gave you the advice, so you can trust me."

Her racing heart calmed a little and she nodded for a moment before she remembered that he couldn't actually see her. "Right. Right."

"So what happened?"

She swallowed, then began. She told him all about falling asleep and waking up in his head, in a dream-space of sorts, where they kept meeting and parting, over and over. Bucky had mentioned to her the things in her memory he had seen and heard, and she told Stephen Strange all of it—that she'd seen things, that she'd met people, figments of Bucky's memory, as well as different versions of him. He listened raptly, seemingly fascinated, barely replying with mm-hmms and ah-hahs as she went on.

Finally, she finished, shaking slightly at the force of finally having it all out on the table. "I keep having these…dreams…these nightmares, and I'm not in my own head, Strange—they're not _my_ memories," she finally spilled, shivering, though the room was quite warm. "I woke up in a cold sweat the other day."

He didn't seem alarmed in the slightest. "What did Bucky say?"

She let out a shaky breath. "I haven't told him about it. He's finally processing all that shit out of his system, I won't add to it. But he's been acting weird too. I was stressed out yesterday, and Tony, he…" She hesitated again, before diving in. "He was railing about all of this being his fault, and that I almost died, and I…I had a…"

"Bit of a flashback?" he filled in, his voice surprisingly soft.

She huffed. "Yes. And Bucky called—like right away—and demanded to know if I was alright, like he could _feel_ it." She hesitated, then decided to just screw it. "The…" She lowered her voice. "The sex was…was weird, like I was in his head."

He was quiet for a moment.

She sighed, pulling her free hand through her hair. " _Well_?"

She heard him hesitate. "Darcy…it may be nothing. It may just be residual bleed-off from the connection you formed."

"But what even _was_ that, though?"

"Merely a neural link, nothing sinister."

"That I was able to accomplish with my freaky new voodoo powers?!"

He chuckled softly. "Yes. Exactly."

She growled out her frustration. "So now I can do _Vulcan mind melds_?!"

Another laugh. "Sort of. You seem to have a predisposition for altering someone's life force."

She rolled her eyes. " _And_?!"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Darcy, but we're really in uncharted territory here. You may just have to…wade in and see what happens."

She groaned, letting her forehead drop down onto her desk.

"I'm sorry."

"Is it dangerous? Or…is it fucking with things? I mean, am I…even me anymore? I feel like…I feel like I'm in his head and he's in mine."

He spoke slowly. "That may be the case, now. Darcy, there is no precedent for this, no roadmap. I have regrettably little to offer you. My suggestion was just that: a suggestion. I was shooting from the hip, in effect, and I wasn't entirely sure it would work, let alone _how_ it would work. I'm sorry if I misled you or…freaked you out."

She sighed.

"But, that being said, I wouldn't worry too much. It sounds like it just…heightened what you already had between you, nothing more. After all, a bond is only as strong as the devotion you feed it. The two of you seem very tightly bound, so I would…try and use it to my advantage. Okay?"

((()))

With Strange's words still rolling around in her mind, Darcy woke around two out of a dead sleep, snapping into sharp awareness out of nowhere. For a moment, she stared at the ceiling, taking inventory of everything in the room, cataloguing every sound in the apartment.

The steady hiss of the vent as it blew cool air into the room per the thermostat.

The low drone of traffic far, far below on Park Avenue, just a barely audible hum through the thick, high rise windows.

The soft padding noise of Max, tapping the wall with one paw as he slept, twitching in some dreamland.

Bucky's slow, soft breathing beside her, his hand on her hip.

She glanced over at him. For someone who had been forced into such frenzied action for so long, he'd certainly learned how to relax. Around her and a select, trusted few, he could melt into a boneless puddle and not move if the mood struck him.

She wasn't sure what had woken her; there'd been no discernible sound in the room, nothing that should've been able to draw her out of deep sleep, especially since she always slept so well after a night of spectacular sex.

But her skin was prickling and her sixth sense was humming warmly in the back of her mind. She sat up, frowning around at the dark room.

Bucky shifted beside her, sighing in his sleep as he settled deeper into the pillow, his hand sliding over her thigh. The urge to nestle in against him again and go back to sleep was nearly unbearable. But something kept her from doing so.

Moving gingerly to avoid waking him, she slid down from the high bed and onto the icy cold hardwood floor, glancing around as she straightened her tiny nightgown. It was a thin-strapped, snug little thing that fell just above her knees—a sexy, low-key option for summer nights that was beyond comfortable. She slid on her silk robe, leaving it open as she yawned in the dark room. Quietly, she padded down the hall and peered around the doorway into the living room.

Nothing. In fact, her senses felt cooler in here.

Frowning and wondering if she was imagining it, she turned and backtracked.

 _No_. No, Bucky had trained her to trust her instincts and he'd tell her to listen hard now, for any thrum, any vibration to the line. Like a spider at the center of a web.

With thoughts of Natasha's alter ego in her head, she went back into the bedroom and looked at him for a long moment with unashamed longing. The bed was warm. _He_ was warm. And he smelled good, like the vanilla soap she'd splurged on the week before at Sephora, but with that musky male… _something_ to cut the sweetness.

And she'd told Tony the truth. Things had been _so good_ between them—not that they'd ever been _bad_ —since the whole mess in Bruce's lab. She hadn't thought they could be any closer, but she'd been wrong, and she was getting that old feeling again, that no matter which direction she stepped in, something might snap the tentative strings of repair in their life.

Sighing hard, she forced herself to turn and survey the rest of the room.

Totally still. But something felt… _distinctly wrong_.

Eyes narrowed, she moved across to the balcony and slid the door just wide enough to step out without letting in a breeze that would wake her sleeping soldier. The New York noise was louder out here, even with the extreme height at which Avengers Tower stood, and she took a deep breath of the clearer air as the sounds of rushing traffic and drunken yelling drifted, muffled, upwards.

Well, maybe not so clear. She cleared her throat against the smog and rolled her eyes.

New York.

But the feeling was stronger out here. She cocked her head and felt around, using that sixth sense to nudge at the air around her. She found it warm and crackling with…an ' _other'_ energy.

One that felt eerily familiar.

She cocked her head the other way and let her gaze slide through her lashes at the figure standing in shadow along the far edge of their balcony. "Nice night for a bit of high rise scaling, hm? Or did your personal helicopter drop off your _dead weight_?"

Aldrich Killian gifted her with a feral grin and stepped into a sliver of dim light. "Dead weight?"

She narrowly avoided letting herself pull the proverbial move of crossing her arms over her chest in a stereotypical show of self-defense. She had nothing to prove to this maniac—and it wasn't as though he'd already seen her in tiny pajamas. "That's what you'll be soon enough if I shout the alarm."

But Aldrich chuckled, his damnably attractive mouth a slice of macabre humor in the darkness. "Oh, but you won't tattle on me, will you?"

She leaned against the balcony ledge, letting the hard stone cut through her thin layers and press a cool edge against her skin, keeping her alert. "Why not?"

Killian narrowed his eyes and took a step closer, showing her little. "Because for all your talk, you're not so sure your Boy Toy can take me."

Was _that_ what he thought?

She snorted. " _Oh_? Well, that's news to me. I thought the last time you squared off your Lava Man powers were useless against him—and there was that other thing. What was it?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh. Yeah. The whole thing where he almost _killed_ you."

He sneered. "Did his newfound morality keep him from getting further blood on his hands?"

"Nah." She waved a hand. "It was merely a question of time. He wanted to bring you in for questioning." And she presented him with her own feral grin. "I'm pretty sure he wanted to be the one to do the questioning." She cocked her head again and gave him her best sweet smile. " _Why_ do you think he'd want to do that?"

Killian chuckled. "He should thank me. I _made_ you. He wouldn't want to force me to _unmake_ you, now would he?"

She snarled, tired of the silly, passive-aggressive banter. "Cut the crap, Aldrich. You know I can see through your shit. Now why are you here? I was sleeping so well until you dragged your _stink_ through here."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, come on—you know how much fun you are?! I had to come razz you about the upstate facility! You're my only source of witty banter, Ms. Lewis—or is that _Mrs. Barnes_ , now? I forget."

She glared at him. "Jokes on you—the tracker is _dead_."

Bruce and Tony had done extensive tests after everything had died down. They were _positive_ , and they'd assured her that she wasn't in danger of making anything go kablooey anymore. They weren't sure what to look to—her new powers, the force of the blast itself knocking the signal off the tiny piece of technology, or whatever had happened between them when they'd been unconscious.

Either way, she was relieved.

"And _no one else_. In fact, the only thing you succeeded in doing was drawing us all closer together. Is that what you intended?"

He grinned, but didn't take the bait. " _Mrs. Barnes_. It has a nice ring to it. And _now_ , if he's Killed in Action, you get it _all_! Or, wait." He gestured. "Killed in Action—again." He chuckled. "Sometimes I get confused. Is he _officially_ alive or did Fury pull some strings? Did he get to keep his Social Security Number?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're hilarious, Killian."

He shrugged demurely. "I try."

She had no illusions—patience had never been a strong suit with her, and at the moment, hers was growing paper thin. " _What do you want_?" she snapped, biting out the words. "You just won't _go away_. You show up in the middle of paradise, blow the place wide, tie me to a chair, make me blow shit up! What the _fuck_ do you _want_?!"

She was almost surprised to find herself out of breath, her hands crackling at her sides, rage pooling in her belly for all that he'd done, all that he'd put her through—her and Bucky both. He had the audacity to show himself here, like it was all some _joke_?!

Killian's smile slowly melted, his eyes on her fingers as they snapped with electricity. He swallowed. "What, exactly, _did_ I make you, hm?"

She snarled. "I'm sure you'd love to find out, but you might find I'm a little harder to catch now. If you hadn't noticed the trail of dead we left down Route 66." She took a step toward him, her eyes growing hot with anger. "You didn't come for anything, did you? You didn't come for any other reason than to see how far down you'd brought me. That _gets you off_ , doesn't it?" She sneered at him as his face colored. "Admit it, Killian. You came to see what sort of mess I'd become, it turns you on to see how frightened you can make someone, now. That shit with Tony a few years ago never really ended for you, did it? It's something you can't shake now, this need you have to alter others, to remake them so that they have no choice but to rely on you. You had no control over your life before. You were just a creep, begging at Tony's ankles like a _Toy Poodle_. And when he was asshole—which, admittedly, he _was_ —you _snapped_."

He flinched, stepping back as she continued to slowly advance.

She continued, blind with building rage. "You snapped. You took control back, but you went too far, didn't you Aldrich?" She grinned, closing the distance between them. "He knocked you back down a peg. And you. Can't. _Stand it_. You have to do something to make yourself an equal again, to make yourself a big player, hm? So you feel like you still have pieces to move around the board. Well, you _don't_." She finally stopped, glaring up into his face, rage crackling in her veins. "You're _pathetic_. And you might've made me your little experiment. But now you've lost control of me. Like Frankenstein and his _monster_ , hm?"

He swallowed, his apprehension and growing fear clear on his face.

She smiled, gesturing back inside. "You're _afraid_ of him. And you _should_ be. But here you are, right now, in the middle of the night, realizing that you should be afraid of _me_ too." Not thinking, she reached out and snatched his throat into her grip. Her hand was too small to take up his whole neck, but she found it didn't much matter, as she felt her grip increase enough to make up for it, putting pressure on just the right spot.

His eyes went wide as he stared down at her, frozen in fear.

Something was coming over her, slowly, like smoldering embers catching fire in her veins, and she saw red as she looked up at him. She didn't feel a thing, and yet she felt it all—every second of torture and suffering, every moment of pain and fear under his care, the deep-set, bone-deep seduction of the siren song for vengeance. So close. Right there if she just reached out and snatched it up. Her veins weren't filled with blood anymore, they were filled with molten fury and she clenched down on her hand, shoving him back against the guardrail with everything she had, feeling the hard cartilage of his windpipe constricting beneath her palm as the rail shook.

He started struggling, then, his hand coming up, molten and orange, to clamp down on her wrist and exert his own pressure. But she didn't feel a thing.

She tugged at the essence deep down, where she kept it shoved in a little pocket, where it was becoming easier and easier to call it, and pooled it in her mind, using it to edge him out, to increase her strength over him, and she smiled as his struggles turned to thrashing that was largely useless.

Triumph.

But then something even stranger happened—

((()))

 _"_ _Make sure you keep pressure," Bucky instructed, taking up her wrist in his metal hand and tugging her forward into him, pushing her fingers more tightly against his windpipe._

 _She blushed, glad they were alone in the weight room. "Yeah, pressure, sure—but let's be honest, Jamie. My hand's way too small to do any damage against a baddie."_

 _Bucky smiled, easing off and standing. "You're different now, Darce. You've got serum in your blood. You can hold your own better than you think you can."_

 _She rolled her eyes, glancing at the clock. "And you can teach me a proper chokehold before dinner?"_

 _He flicked a hand at her. "We're ordering out anyway, right? We've got a honeymoon to plan, after all."_

 _His grin nearly undid her, but she focused on undoing the tape around her knuckles. "Is this gonna be a thing?"_

 _He checked the hooks on the punching bag and seemed satisfied that she hadn't damaged anything. "What are you talking about?"_

 _She chuckled, teasing him wryly. "Is it gonna be a thing, where the fact that I'm slightly more capable of killing someone than I was before is a huge turn-on for you?"_

 _To her surprise, he rebuffed the joke. "A turn-on?"_

 _She shrugged. "Well. I mean, I'm in the wrong business, here, otherwise. And, I mean, I think I've already come pretty close to taking someone out a few times already. Would it be a thing for you if I actually did?"_

 _He cocked his head and studied her. "I'd rather you didn't."_

 _And he seemed suddenly so earnest that she could only stare at him for a moment. "Seriously?"_

 _He shrugged, looking down at his hands, suddenly awkward. "Darcy. It's no easy thing. Just because they're an enemy, just because they might be part of a plot to blow up the earth, it…it doesn't make it easy. It should. And it sounds like it ought to be. But…it's not."_

 _She frowned. "What isn't?"_

 _He finally looked up at her, and his eyes were a bright, sea blue. "Taking a life."_

 _She stared at him, his solemn tone striking a tiny fissure in her._

 _"_ _The fact that they're a 'bad guy' doesn't change anything. It should. In a fair world, it would. But it doesn't change the fact that you've ended someone. You've cut them off, you've decided that they shouldn't live anymore—you've taken the only thing anyone truly owns—their life."_

 _She swallowed, his words hanging heavy between them, and when she spoke, she found her voice husky with feeling and the knowledge that he would know this better than most of the people in this building. "And?"_

 _He sighed out a deep breath. "And I don't want that for you. No matter what you might tell yourself, you still killed someone and you can't take it back. That's not an easy thing to carry around, and I don't want you to have to carry it. You think you're strong enough, and Darcy, I have no doubt of how strong you are. You're the strongest person I think I've ever met."_

 _She scoffed._

 _"_ _But that sort of knowledge, that sense of ownership, it's heavy. It weighs a ton, and you can't put it down." He stared hard into her eyes across the distance between them across the training mat. "Trust me."_

 _She nodded, a little dazed as he closed that distance and took up her hands, studying the pressure points and marks left by the wrapping on her fingers. He ran the pad of his human thumb over a red hatch mark and sighed. "The idea of you killing someone doesn't turn me on. I may be an assassin, but I'm not sick. I don't want that for you."_

 _She swallowed. "What if it's him or me?"_

 _"_ _Then cross that bridge when you come to it. And brace yourself. It's vicious, more vicious than I can put words to, Darcy. And there's always another choice."_

 _She snorted. "Yeah, okay, so I can just release the baddie and let him go free to kill other people?"_

 _He nodded. "I know, it's hard to rectify. But his killing isn't something you can control. That's not on your conscience, Darcy. There's always another choice. It might not be an easy one. But there's always one there."_

((()))

The memory smacked her, hard, and square in the throat, making her gasp back, releasing her grip on Aldrich Killian.

He doubled over, coughing and gagging, clawing at his throat as he finally managed to pull air back into his lungs, the raw sound overtaking the noise of the streets below.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, her hand shaking and hot where she'd pressed it to his throat.

She'd promised. Or she might as well have.

But.

But this man, this man in front of her was a monster. She couldn't possibly let him go, not for what he'd done to _her_ , or to _Bucky_ , or _Tony_ , or what he might do to the next few unfortunate souls. She couldn't possibly leave him to level some building and kill every single person inside, he couldn't be allowed to go _free_.

Bucky's voice was heavy with feeling in her head, insisting that she'd never be able to live with herself either way.

Before she could really think about it, she lunged at him, her hands crackling with energy as they closed around his collar—

Which he slipped straight out of, leaving her standing there with his thin jacket.

He laughed as he darted straight over the ledge of the balcony.

Jaw dropping open, she bent to look over the edge—

But he was gone.


	27. Epilogue

**Chapter 27** **: Epilogue**

 **Summary:** **The end. For now.**

 **Notes:** **Well. Here we are. The end. Thought I'd tack on a little epilogue, have some fun with it. I love you all for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. You're all the best. Special shout-out to HeartOfHandprints for being my sounding board. You're awesome, girl! Again, thank you for reading, and bounce me any ideas you'd like to see for one-shots, etc. Would you guys like a Christmas one? Not sure what I'd do, yet, but if you guys want it, I can figure it out...Some incentive for some idea suggestions, I suppose...teehee.** **Until next time. Love you all!** **Sarah**

((()))

"God, the last time I saw that it was from a distance while I was being shipped out."

Darcy looked up at the massive clock tower, and tried to muster a smile, but couldn't quite manage it.

"You know, the clock face isn't really Big Ben. The bell inside the tower is what's actually named. Bet you already knew that."

She nodded. "Mm. Really."

Suddenly her shoulder jostled and she was bumped to the side. Caught by surprise, she nearly crashed into the person sidestepping her on the London sidewalk, but a metal hand wrapped around her elbow and tugged her back upright. "Hey."

She jerked and frowned up at Bucky. "What was _that_ for?"

The Winter Soldier gave her a stern look. "We're supposed to be having _fun_ , not sulking."

She opened her mouth to retort with something snarky about how he wasn't supposed to talk to her like she was a child, but then she shut it, all arguments a moot point. Besides…he was right. "I'll…sulk all I want."

He smirked, but wouldn't let her off the hook. "C'mon. So Killian slipped through your fingers. We'll get him the next time."

She scowled at him. "How do you always read my mind?"

He gave her a wry look. "Babe, even if we _weren't_ somehow connected since that trip into _Inception_ , I can read your thoughts all over your face."

She sighed, deflating as she looked back up at London's Clock Tower in the distance. "Guess I just…panicked." A new font of shame washed over her, icy cold.

He tugged her under the overhang of the café they stood outside. _Speedy's_ , it was called. "I'm glad you didn't kill him," he murmured softly, holding her gaze steady in his bright blue eyes.

She blinked, staring up at him in surprise. She still hadn't had the guts to tell him every detail of what had transpired that night two weeks ago, and she was _positive_ she hadn't mentioned her almost _killing_ Aldrich Killian. He'd been so pissed he'd slept through it, he'd snapped at Tony about how sound-proof he'd made all the Tower glass. "But how—"

" _Again_ , Darce," he interrupted, smiling softly down at her. "I don't need to be Superman to see right through you sometimes." He glanced up at a passerby and frowned, but switched his attention back to her. "I meant what I said all those weeks ago in training: what he does next is on _his_ soul, not _yours_. I'm glad you didn't kill him. You don't deserve any red in your ledger."

She swallowed hard, and nodded, making sure she was looking him right in the eyes.

He reached up to cup her face. "Take a deep breath."

Feeling a little silly, she did, pulling in a deep lungful of London fog. It was blanketing the street around them, painting everything a melancholy shade of picture perfect postcard scenery.

He nodded. "Good. Now let it out—and I want you to _let this go_. We live to fight another day, okay?"

She did so, letting it all huff out of her in a deep, open sigh. And he was right: she felt a little better.

They were in London.

Things were good. Nothing had blown up in the two weeks since everything had finally come to a close.

She had no real reason to sulk. She'd always wanted to sight-see in London and the last time she'd been here she'd been too busy running around like a chicken-with-its-head-cut-off to really have the time.

She was with her Jamie.

She smiled.

He gave her a wink. "Better. Now kiss me."

Giggling, she got up on her toes to press her mouth to his for a short moment of sweetness. He tasted like the Italian style espresso he'd had at breakfast back at Hotel 41, where they'd splurged on the suite with the glass ceiling.

Really, everything was perfect and she had no reason to complain. If she always expected the bad guys to cooperate, she was in the wrong line of work.

Tony had been fuming for _days_ —

But not at her, which he'd _insisted_ over and over until he was _blue_ in the face.

Steve had said he was proud of her for facing him at all.

She didn't give a flying fuck what Maria surely said about it all behind her back.

Natasha had teased that she'd made a rookie mistake, but told her that really, next time she and Killian met, it just meant that she got to have extra fun torturing him.

So Aldrich Killian was in the wind—

 _For now_.

But Big Ben was just in front of her and really she figured she should shut up and enjoy it.

They took off down the street, Bucky's fingers searching out hers until they were laced between them.

They passed two men going the other direction, one on the left, with gorgeous dark skin and sharp sunglasses who gave her a little wink as he went by. Never mind that it wasn't sunny. His companion was in a leather jacket and had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a crew cut that made him look even tougher than he otherwise might, if not for his rather slight height.

When the man with the dog passed them by a second time, Bucky glared at the passerby he'd spied near the café.

The little brown and black dog the man was walking on a leash gave a little bark and was tugged patiently away in the other direction.

They stopped at the corner of the Parliament Building.

"I just love the Gothic Style," Darcy commented. "Don't you wanna just go up and touch it?"

Bucky chuckled. "I don't think they'd take too kindly to you doing that for long periods."

They continued on their way.

It had taken her a few days to work up the courage to broach the topic, but they'd finally discussed all the details of what each of them had seen there, in that strange dreamscape.

Bucky had been his usual open, honest self. He'd been particularly concerned that she'd had to get past the Winter Soldier in order to find him. Or, at least, that was his working theory. She was just glad she'd somehow earned his trust.

And, again, she was surprised by how much closer you could feel to someone else, when you already thought you were in a good place. It felt like they'd finally gotten back to their regularly scheduled program, but the time between had been filled with really great infomercials that had only enhanced the show, like a _Behind the Scenes_ featurette.

"What about the museum?" a woman suggested behind them.

"Mm. Nah," her companion said.

The woman sighed and the audible sound of crackling paper was heard.

"You really need that tour guide book?" the man said, his voice wry. "You could be a tour guide yourself."

"Haven't spent much time here, actually," she commented. "More the…"

"Back alleys?"

She snorted. "Right. Anyway, we're _blending in_ , remember?"

Bucky sighed and he shared a look with Darcy.

"I guess."

"C'mon," she tried again. "The museum's right down there. Let's go."

"I dunno…"

"This is supposed to be a _vacation_ for us, remember? Not a _job_."

"Yeah, but what about—"

"Okay, the museum it is, then!" the woman interrupted.

Darcy glanced back to see her physically dragging her companion off, his Chucks leaving soft skid marks on the pavement.

"He's such a blockhead," Bucky muttered.

"Where to?" she asked.

He glanced up the street, then down. "Well. There's The Tower. Then there's that Tube ride you wanted to take. There's the museum—"

"Nope," she cut him off. "Later. _Much_ later."

He laughed. "There's Buckingham Palace, if you really wanna be a typical tourist type?"

She squinted up into the dim haze. "Sure. I think we've got time before it rains. We could do the _Sherlock Holmes_ thing tomorrow? You know, the whole fake _221B_ thing?"

He nodded. "Yeah, that'd be cool."

They continued on their way.

Darcy glanced around, rolling her eyes and trying to ignore the familiar faces just around them, hovering, but clearly trying _not_ to hover.

Natasha was _literally_ dragging Steve by one arm down the block.

Clint and Sam were acting like a couple of cool Air Force pilots in their shades and leather jackets as they patrolled up and down the block.

Dorks.

Tony kept circling with Max on his leash, coming _way_ too close.

Never mind that they were all told, in no uncertain terms, to _stay the fuck in Manhattan._

But…

She sort of loved it that they hadn't listened.

She smirked up at Bucky. "Hey."

He glanced down, his eyes shadowed by his baseball cap.

"They're all idiots, but I'm glad they're here."

He snorted, looking both ways at the corner. "As long as they don't follow us into our hotel room, I guess I can't complain. Tony took it _way_ too far last night. Just because there's a second room in the suite doesn't mean he's _sleeping_ in it. He tries that again, he's sleeping in that ridiculous Lambo he rented—and I don't care if supercars aren't made for overnight trips."

She laughed, but got up on her toes to kiss her husband. "Love you, Soldier Boy."

They crossed the street toward the Palace.

A dog barked softly behind them.

"Where you guys heading?" a voice spoke up behind them, totally casual.

Neither of them spoke.

"Hey, seriously. Barnes Squared, I want to make sure JARVIS can monitor you guys while I take Max for his lunch," Tony insisted, his voice low behind them.

Darcy shook her head.

They passed the Palace right by.

"Guys. _Guys_."

Bucky sighed. "How about _anywhere but here_?" he suggested.

Darcy tugged on his arm. "Love the way your mind works."


End file.
